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FAIRY    LEGENDS 

-'V 


TRADITIONS 


OP 


THE   SOUTH  OF  IRELAND. 


T.  CROFTON    CROKER. 


^  Weto  Htrftion. 

WITH  NUMEROUS   ILLUSTRATIONS,    AFTER    DESIGNS   OP 
THE   AUTHOR   AND  OTHERS. 


'Come  r  araba  Fenice 
Che  ci  sia,  ognun  lo  dice; 
Dove  Eia,ni'ssun  lo  sa."— Metastasio. 


LEA    AND   BLANCHARD. 

1844. 


'.  , 


"5  -;  6  r-i- 


PEEEAGE 


The  erudite  Lessing  styles  a  preface  ''the  his- 
tory of  a  book."  Now,  though  there  can  be  no 
necessity  for  a  preface  in  that  sense  of  the  word 
to  the  reprint  of  a  work  of  mere  whim,  which  has 
been  nearly  ten  years  before  the  public,  yet  a  few 
words  are  requisite  to  prevent  the  present  con- 
densed and  revised  edition  from  being  considered 
an  abridgment. 

However  compact  may  be  the  mode  of  printing 
adopted,  the  act  of  compressing  into  one  volume 
the  three  in  which  the  *'  Fairy  Legends  ^'  origi- 
nally appeared,  involved  to  a  certain  extent  the 
necessity  of  selection,  perhaps  the  most  difficult 
of  all  tasks  judiciously  to  perform;  but  the  follow- 
ing statement  will  show  the  system  proceeded  on. 

Forty  tales  descriptive  of  Irish  superstitions 
now  appear'  instead  of  fifty.  All  superfluous  an- 
notations have  been  struck  out,  and  a  brief  sum- 
mary at  the  end  of  each  section  substituted,  ex- 
planatory of  the  classification  adopted,  and  in 
which  a  few  additional  notes  have  been  intro- 


Vi  PREFACE. 

duced,  as  well  as  upon  the  text.  It  is  therefore 
hoped  that  this  curtailment  will  be  regarded  as  an 
essential  improvement;  some  useless  repetition  in 
the  tales  being  thereby  avoided,  and  much  irrele- 
vant matter  in  the  notes  dispensed  with,  although 
nothing  which  illustrates  in  the  slightest  degree 
the  popular  Fairy  Creed  of  Ireland  has  been  sa- 
crificed. At  the  same  time,  the  omission  of  a  por- 
tion of  the  ten  immaterial  tales  will  sufficiently 
answer  doubts  idly  raised  as  to  the  question  of 
authorship. 


CONTENTS 


The  Shefro. 

I.  The  Legend  of  Knocksheogowna, 
II.   Knockfierna,    . 

III.   Knockgrafton,     . 

IV.  The  Priest's  Supper, 

V.  The   Brewery  of  Egg-shells, 
VI.  Legend  of  Bottle  Hill,     . 
VII.  The  Confessions  of  Tom  Bourke, 
VIII.  Fairies  or  no  Fairies, 
Note  on  the  Section. 


The  Cluricaune. 


IX.  The  Haunted  Cellar, 
X.  Master  and  Man, 
XL  The  Little  Shoe,      . 
Note  on  the  Section. 


The  Banshee. 

XII.  The  Bunworth  Banshee, 

XIII.  The  M'Carthy  Banshee, 
Note  on  the  Section. 

The  Phooka. 

XIV.  The  Spirit  Horse, 
XV.  Daniel  O'Rcurke,     . 

XVL  The  Crookened  Back, 
Note  on  the  Section, 


Thierna  na  Oge. 


XVII.  Fior  Usga, 
XVIII.  Cormac  and  Mary  (Ballad,) 
XIX.  The  Legend  of  Lough  Gur, 
XX.  The  Enchanted  Lake,      . 
XXI.  The  Legend  of  O'Donoghue, 


.  119 

.  1-22 

.  124 

.  126 

.  130 

Note  on  the  Section 132 


Page 

.  13 

17 
.  21 

26 
.  30 

34 
.  43 

56 
.  61 


70 

77 
79 


81 

85 
100 


101 
105 
112 
117 


VIU  CONTENTS. 

The  Merrow. 

XXIL  The  Lady  of  Gollerus, 133 

XXIII.  Flory  Cantillon's  Funeral,  ....      139 

XXIV.  The  Lord  of  Duiikerron  {Ballad,)  .         .         .143 
XXV.  The  Wonderful  Tune,        .....      146 

Note  on  the  Section \        »  154 

The  Dullahan. 

XXVI.  The  Good  Woman, 155 

XXVII.  Hanlon's  Mill, 163 

XXVIII.  The  Death  Coach  (Ballad,)        ....      167 

XXIX.  The  Headless  Horseman, 169 

Note  on  the  Section, 178 

The  Fir  Darrig. 

XXX.  Diarmid  Bawn,  the  Piper, 179 

XXXL  Teigue  ofthe  Lee, 184 

XXXII,  Ned  Sheehy's  Excuse, 190 

XXXIII.  The  Lucky  Guest, 201 

Note  on  the  Section 208 

Treasure  Legends. 

XXXIV.  Dreaming  Tim  Jarvis, 209 

XXXV.  Rent  Day, 217 

XXXVI.  Linn-na-Payshtha, 220 

Note  on  the  Section 225 

Rocks  and  Stones. 

XXXVII.  The  Legend  of  Cairn  Thierna,  .        .        .      226 

XXXVin.  The  Rock  of  the  Candle, 229 

XXXIX.  Clough-na-Cuddy, 232 

XL.  The  Giant's  Stairs 240 

Appendix — Letter  from  Sir  Walter  Scott.     .        .      247 


TO  THE 

DOWAGER  LADY  CHATTERTON. 

CASTLE   MAHON. 

Thee,  Lady,  would  T  lead  through  Fairy-land 

(Whence  cold  and  doubting  reasoners  are  exiled,) 
A  land  of  dreams,  with  air-built  castles  piled; 

The  moonlight  Shefros  there,  in  merry  band 

With  artful  Cluricaune,  should  ready  stand 
To  welcome  thee — Imagination's  child! 
Till  on  thy  ear  would  burst  so  sadly  wild 

The  Banshee's  shriek,  who  points  with  wither'd  hand. 

In  the  dim  twilight  should  the  Phooka  come, 
Whose  dusky  form  fades  in  the  sunny  light, 
That  opens  clear  calm  Lakes  upon  thy  sight, 

Where  blessed  spirits  dwell  in  endless  bloom. 

I  know  thee,  Lady — thou  wilt  not  deride 

Such  Fairy  Scenes. — Then  onward  with  thy  Guide. 


Cf^i^^r^^yt^-^^ir^t^, 


The  Wood  Engravings  after  Designs  by 
Mr.  Brooke,  R.  H.  A.,  Mr.  M'Clise,  and  the  Author. 


FAIEY    LEGENDS. 


FAIE  Y    LEGENDS 


THE    SHEFRO. 


■"  Fairy  Elves 


Whose  midnight  revels,  by  a  forest  side 
Or  fountain  some  belated  peasant  sees, 
Or  dreams  he  sees,  while  over-head  the  Moon 
Sits  arbitress,  and  nearer  to  the  earth 
Wheels  her  pale  course." — 

Milton. 


LEGENDS    OF    THE    SHEFRO 


THE 


LEGEND  OF  KNOCKSHEOGOWNA. 


I. 

In  Tipperary  is  one  of  the  most  singularly  shaped  hills 
in  the  world.  It  has  got  a  peak  at  the  top  like  a  conical 
nightcap  thrown  carelessly  over  your  head  as  you  awake 
in  the  niorning.  On  the  very  point  is  built  a  sort  of  lodge, 
where  in  the  summer  the  lady  who  built  it  and  her  friends 
used  to  go  on  parties  of  pleasure;  but  that  was  long  after  the 
days  of  the  fairies,  and  it  is,  I  believe,  now  deserted. 

But  before  lodge  was  built,  or  acre  sown,  there  was  close 
to  the  head  of  this  hill  a  large  pasturage,  where  a  herdsman 
spent  his  days  and  nights  among  the  herd.  The  spot  had 
been  an  old  fairy  ground,  and  the  good  people  were  angry 
that  the  scene  of  their  li2;ht  and  airy  gambols  should  be 
trampled  by  the  rude  hoofs  of  bulls  and  cows.  The  lowing 
of  the  cattle  sounded  sad  in  their  ears,  and  the  chief  of  the 
fairies  of  the  hill  determined  in  person  to  drive  away  the 
new  comers;  and  the  w^ay  she  thought  of  was  this.  VVhen 
the  harvest  nights  came  on,  and  the  moon  shone  bright 
and  brilliant  over  the  hill,  and  the  cattle  were  lying  dovvn 
hushed  and  quiet,  and  the  herdsman,  wrapt  in  his  mantle, 
was  musing  with  his  heart  gladdened  by  the  glorious  com- 
pany of  the  stars  twinkling  above  him,  she  would  come  and 
dance  before  him, — now  in  one  shape — now  in  another, — 
but  all  ugly  and  frightful  to  behold.  One  time  she  would 
be  a  great  horse,  with  the  wings  of  an  easjle,  and  a  tail  like 
a  dragon,  hissing  loud  and  spitting  fire.  Then  in  a  moment 
she  would  change  into  a  little  iTlan  lame  of  a  leg,  with  a 
2 


14  THE   LEGEND  OF  KNOCKSHEOGOWNA. 

• 

bull's  head,  and  a  lambent  flame  playing  round  it.  Then 
into  a  great  ape,  with  duck's  feet,  and  a  turkey  cock's  tail. 
But  I  should  be  all  day  about  it  were  I  to  tell  you  all  the 
shapes  she  took.  And  then  she  would  roar,  or  neigh,  or 
hiss,  or  bellow,  or  howl,  or  hoot,  as  never  yet  was  roaring, 
neighing,  hissing,  bellowing,  howling,  or  hooting,  heard  in 
this  world  before  or  since.  The  poor  herdsman  would 
cover  his  face,  and  call  on  all  the  saints  for  help,  but  it  was 
no  use.  With  one  puff  of  her  breath  she  would  blow  away 
the  fold  of  his  great  coat,  let  him  hold  it  never  so  tightly- 
over  his  eyes, and  not  a  saint  in  heaven  paid  him  the  slightest 
attention.  And  to  make  matters  worse,  he  never  could 
stir;  no,  nor  even  shut  his  eyes,  but  there  was  obliged  to 
stay,  held  by  what  power  he  knew  not,  gazing  at  these 
terrible  sights  until  the  hair  of  his  head  would  lift  his  hat 
half  a  foot  over  his  crown,  and  his  teeth  would  be  ready  to 
fall  out  from  chattering.  But  the  cattle  would  scamper 
about  mad,  as  if  they  were  bitten  by  the  fly;  and  this  woul  ' 
last  until  the  sun  rose  over  the  hill. 

Tiie  poor  cattle  from  want  of  rest  were  pining  away^. 
and  food  did  them  no  good;  besides,  they  met  with  acci- 
dents without  end.  Never  a  night  passed  that  some  of  them 
did  not  fall  into  a  pit,  and  get  maimed,  or,  may  be,  killed. 
Some  would  tumble  into  a  river  and  be  drowned ;  in  a  word, 
there  seemed  never  to  be  an  end  of  the  accidents.  But 
what  made  the  matter  worse,  there  could  not  be  a  herds- 
man got  to  tend  the  cattle  by  night.  One  visit  from  the 
fairy  drove  the  stoutest  hearted  almost  mad.  The  owner 
of  the  ground  did  not  know  what  to  do.  He  offered  dou- 
ble, treble,  quadruple  wages,  but  not  a  man  could  be 
found  for  the  sake  of  money  to  go  through  the  horror  of 
facing  the  fairy.  She  rejoiced  at  the  successful  issue  of  her 
project,  and  continued  her  pranks.  The  herd  gradually 
thinning,  and  no  man  daring  to  remain  on  the  ground,  the 
fairies  came  back  in  numbers,  and  gambolled  as  merrily  as 
before,  quaffing  dew-drops  from  acorns,  and  spreading  theii 
feast  on  the  heads  of  capacious  mushrooms. 

What  was  to  be  done?  the  puzzled  farmer  thought  ia 
vain.  He  found  that  his  substance  was  daily  diminishing, 
his  people  terrified,  and  his  rent-day  coming  round.  It  is 
no  wonder  that  he  looked  gloomy,  and  walked  mournfully 


THE  LEGEND  OP  KNOCKSIIEOGOWNA.  15 

down  the  road.  Now  in  that  part  of  the  world  dwelt  a 
man  o[  the  name  of  Larry  Hoolahan,  who  played  on  the 
pipes  better  than  any  other  player  within  fifteen  paris!ies. 
A  roving,  dashing  blade  was  Larry,  and  feared  nothing. 
Give  him  plenty  of  liquor,  and  he  would  defy  the  devil. 
He  would  face  a  mad  bull,  or  fight  single-handed  against  a 
fair.  In  one  of  his  gloomy  walks  the  farmer  met  him,  ancl 
on  Larry's  asking  the  cause  of  his  down  looks,  he  told  him 
all  his  misfortunes.  "If  that  is  all  ails  you/'  said  Larry, 
"make  your  mind  easy.  Were  there  as  many  fairies  on 
Knocksheogowna  as  there  are  potato  blossoms  in  Eliogur- 
ty,  I  would  face  them.  It  would  be  a  queer  thing,  indeed, 
if  I,  who  never  was  afraid  of  a  proper  man,  should  turn  my 
back  upon  a  brat  of  a  fairy  not  the  bigness  of  one's  thumb." 
"Larry,"  said  the  farmer,  "do  not  talk  so  bold,  for  you 
know  not  who  is  hearing  you;  but  if  you  make  your 
words  good,  and  watch  my  herds  for  a  week  on  the  top  of 
the  mountain,  your  hand  shall  be  free  of  my  dish  till  the 
sun  has  burnt  itself  down  to  the  bigness  of  a  farthing  rush- 
light." 

The  bargain  was  struck,  and  Larry  went  to  the  hill-top, 
when  the  moon  began  to  peep  over  the  brow.  He  had 
been  regaled  at  the  farmer's  house,  and  was  bold  vyith  the 
extract  of  barley-corn.  So  h*)?  took  his  seat  on  a  big  stone 
under  a  hollow  of  the  hill,  with  his  back  to  the  wind,  and 
pulled  out  his  pipes.  He  had  not  played  long  when  the 
voice  of  the  fairies  was  heard  upon  the  blast,  like  a  slow 
stream  of  music.  Presently  they  burst  out  into  a  loud 
laugh,  and  Larry  could  plainly  hear  one  say,  "  What!  ano- 
ther man  upon  the  fairies'  ring?  Go  to  him,  queen,  and 
make  him  repent  his  rashness;"  and  they  flew  away. 
Larry  felt  them  pass  by  his  face  as  they  flew,  like  a  swarm 
of  midges;  and,  looking  up  hastily,  he  saw  between  the 
moon  and  him  a  great  black  cat,  standing  on  the  very  tip 
of  its  claws,  with  its  back  up,  and  mewing  with  the  voice 
of  a  water-mill.  Presently  it  swelled  up  towards  the  sky, 
and  turning  round  on  its  left  hind-leg,  whirled  till  it  fell  to 
the  ground,  from  which  it  started  up  in  the  shape  of  a  sal- 
mon, with  a  cravat  round  its  neck,  and  a  pair  of  new  top- 
boots.  "  Go  on,  jewel,"  said  Larry;  "if  you  dance,  I'll 
pipe;"  and  he  struck  up.    So  she  turned  into  this,  and  that. 


16  THE  LEGEND  OF  KNOCKSHEOGOWNA. 

and  the  other,  but  still  Larry  played  on.  as  he  well  knew 
how.  At  last  she  lost  patience,  as  ladies  will  do  when  you 
do  not  mind  their  scolding,  and  changed  herself  into  a  calf, 
milk-white  as  the  cream  of  Cork,  and  with  eyes  as  mild  as 
those  of  the  girl  1  love.  She  came  up  gentle  and  fawning, 
in  hopes  to  throw  him  off  his  guard  by  quietness,  and  then 
to  work  him  some  wrong.  But  Larry  was  not  so  deceived; 
for  when  she  came  up,  he,  dropping  his  pipes,  leaped  upon 
her  back. 

Now  from  the  top  of  Knocksheogowna,  as  you  look 
westward  to  the  broad  Atlantic,  you  will  see  the  Shannon, 
queen  of  rivers;  "  spreading  like  a  sea,"  and  running  on  in 
gentle  course  to  mingle  with  the  ocean  through  the  fair  city 
of  Limerick.  It  on  this  night  shone  under  the  moon,  and 
looked  beautiful  from  the  distant  hill.  Fifty  boats  were 
gliding  up  and  down  on  the  sweet  current,  and  the  song 
of  the  fishermen  rose  gaily  from  the  shore.  Larry,  as  I 
said  before,  leaped  upon  the  back  of  the  fairy,  and  she,  re- 
joiced at  the  opportunity,  sprung  from  the  hill-top,  and 
bounded  clear,  at  one  jump,  over  the  Shannon,  flowing  as  it 
was  just  ten  miles  from  the  mountain's  base.  It  was  done  in 
a  second,  and  when  she  alighted  on  the  distant  bank,  kicking 
up  her  heels,  she  flung  Larry  on  the  soft  turf.  No  sooner 
was  he  thus  planted,  than  he  looked  her  straight  in  the  face, 
and  scratching  his  head,  cried  out,  "  By  my  word,  well 
done!  that  was  not  a  bad  leap /or  a  calf!'' 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  assumed  her 
own  shape.  "  Laurence,"  said  she,  "you  are  a  bold  fellow; 
will  you  come  back  the  way  you  went?''  "And  that's 
what  I  will,"  said  he,  "if  you  let  me."  So  changing  to  a 
calf  again,  again  Larry  got  on  her  back,  and  at  another 
bound  they  were  again  upon  the  top  of  Knocksheogow^na. 
The  fairy,  once  more  resuming  her  figure,  addressed  him: 
"  You  have  shown  so  much  courage,  Laurence,"  said  she, 
"that  while  you  keep  herds  on  this  hill  you  never  shall  be 
molested  by  me  or  mine.  The  day  dawns,  go  down  to 
the  farmer,  and  tell  him  this;  and  if  any  thing  I  can  do  may 
be  of  service  to  you,  ask,  and  you  shall  have  it."  She 
%^anished  accordingly;  and  kept  her  word  in  never  visiting 
the  hill  during  Larry's  life:  but  he  never  troubled  her  with 
requests.     He  piped  and  drank  at  the  farmer's  expense. 


THE  LEGEND  OP  KNOCKSHEOGOWNA.  17 

and  roosted  in  his  chimney  corner,  occasionally  casting  an 
eye  to  the  flock.  He  died  at  last,  and  is  buried  in  a  green 
valley  of  pleasant  Tipperary:  but  whether  the  fairies  re- 
turned to  the  hill  of  Knocksheogowna*  after  his  death,  is 
more  than  1  can  say. 


THB 


LEGEND  OF  KNOCKFIERNA.t 

II. 

It  is  a  very  good  thing  not  to  be  any  way  in  dread  of 
the  fairies,  for  without  doubt  they  have  then  less  power 
over  a  person;  but  to  make  too  free  with  them,  or  to  dis- 
believe in  them  altogether,  is  as  foolish  a  thing  as  man, 
woman,  or  child  can  do. 

It  has  been  truly  said,  that  "good  manners  are  no  bur- 
den," and  that  "civility  costs  nothing;"  but  there  are 
some  people  fool-hardy  enough  to  disregard  doing  a  civil 

*  Knocksheogowna  signifies  *'  The  Hill  of  the  Fairy  Calf.'' 
f  "  Called  by  the  people  of  the  country  *  Knock  Dhoinn  Firinne,* 
the  mountain  of  Donn  of.  Truth.  This  mountain  is  very  high,  and 
may  be  seen  for  several  miles  round;  and  when  people  are  desirous 
to  know  whether  or  not  any  day  will  rain,  they  look  at  the  top  of 
Knock  Firinne,  and  if  they  see  a  vapour  or  mist  there,  they  imme- 
diately conclude  that  rain  will  soon  follow,  believing  that  Donn  (the 
lord  or  chief)  of  that  mountain  and  his  aerial  assistants  are  collect- 
ing the  clouds,  and  that  he  holds  them  there  for  some  short  time,  to 
warn  the  people  of  the  approaching  rain.  As  the  appearance  of 
mist  on  that  mountain  in  the  morning  is  considered  an  infallible  sign 
that  that  day  will  be  rainy,  Donn  is  called  *  Donn  Firmne,'  Donn 
of  Truth."— Me.  Edward  O'Reilly. 

2* 


18  THE  LEGEND  OP  KNOCKFIERNA. 

thing,  whicli,  whatever  they  may  think,  can  never  harm 
themselves  or  any  one  else,  and  who  at  the  same  time  will 
go  out  of  their  way  for  a  bit  of  mischief,  which  never  can 
serve  them;  but  sooner  or  later  they  w\\\  come  to  know 
better,  as  you  shall  hear  of  Carroll  O'Daly,  a  strapping;  young 
fellow  up  out  of  Connaught,  whom  they  used  to  call,  in  his 
own  country,  "  Devil  Daly." 

Carroll  O'Daly  used  to  go  roving  about  from  one  place 
to  another,  and  the  fear  of  nothing  stopped  him;  he  would 
as  soon  pass  an  old  churchyard  or  a  regular  fairy  ground, 
at  any  hour  of  the  night  as  go  from  one  room  into  another, 
without  ever  making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  or  saying, 
''Good  luck  attend  you,  gentlemen.'^ 

It  so  happened  that  he  wasonce  journeying,  in  the  county 
of  Limerick,  towards  "the  Balbec  of  Ireland,"  the  vene- 
rable town  of  Kilmallock;  and  just  at  the  foot  of  Knock- 
fierna  he  overtook  a  respectable-looking  man  jogging  along 
upon  a  white  pony.  The  night  was  coming  on,  and  they 
rode  side  by  side  for  some  time,  without  much  conversa- 
tion passing  between  them,  further  than  saluting  each  other 
very  kindly;  at  last,  Carroll  O'Daly  asked  his  companion 
how  far  he  was  going? 

"  Not  far  your  way,"  said  the  farmer,  for  such  his  ap- 
pearance bespoke  him;  "  Pm  only  going  to  the  top  of  this 
hill  here.'^ 

"  And  what  might  take  you  there,"  said  O'Daly,  "  at 
this  time  of  the  night?" 

"Why  then,"  replied  the  farmer,  "if  you  want  to  know; 
'tis  the  good  people.'^ 

"  The  fairies  you  mean,"  said  O'Daly. 

<* Whist!  whisti"  said  his  fellow-traveller,  "or  you  may 
be  sorry  for  it;'^  and  he  turned  his  pony  off  the  road  they 
were  going,  towards  a  little  path  which  led  up  the  side  of 
the  mountain,  wishing  Carroll  O'Daly  good  night  and  a 
safe  journey. 

"  That  fellow,"  thought  Carroll,  "  is  about  no  good  this 
blessed  night,  and  I  would  have  no  fear  of  swearing  wrong 
if  I  took  my  Bible  oath  that  it  is  something  else  beside  the 
fairies,  or  the  good  people,  as  he  calls  them,  that  is  taking 
him  upthetnountainatthishour.  The  fairies!"  he  repeated, 
"is  it  for  a  well-shaped  man  like  him  to  be  going  after 


THE  LEGEND  OP  KNOCKFIERNA.  19 

little  chaps  like  the  fairies!  To  be  sure  some  say  there  are 
such  things,  and  more  say  not;  but  I  know  this,  that  never 
afraid  would  1  be  of  a  dozen  of  them,  ay,  of  two  dozen,  for 
that  matter,  if  they  are  no  bigger  than  what  I  hear  tell  of." 

Carroll  O'Daly,  whilst  these  thoughts  were  passing  in 
his  mind,  had  fixed  his  eyes  steadfastly  on  the  mountain, 
behind  which  the  full  moon  was  rising  majestically.  Upon 
an  elevated  point  that  appeared  darkly  against  the  moon's 
disk,  he  beheld  the  figure  of  a  man  leading  a  pony,  and  he 
had  no  doubt  it  was  that  of  the  farmer  with  whom  he  had 
just  parted  company. 

A  sudden  resolve  to  follow  flashed  across  the  mind  of 
O'Daly  with  the  speed  of  lightning:  both  his  courage  and 
curiosity  had  been  worked  up  by  his  cogitations  to  a  pitch 
of  chivalry;  and,  muttering,  "Here's  after  you,  old  boy!" 
he  dismounted  from  his  horse,  bound  him  to  an  old  thorn- 
tree,  and  then  commenced  vigorously  ascending  the  moun- 
tain. 

Following  as  well  as  he  could  the  direction  taken  by  the 
figures  of  the  man  and  pony,  he  pursued  his  way,  occasion- 
ally guided  by  their  partial  appearance:  and  after  toiling 
nearly  three  hours  over  a  rugged  and  sometimes  swampy 
path,  came  to  a  green  spot  on  the  top  of  the  mountain, 
where  he  saw  the  white  pony  at  full  liberty  grazing  as 
quietly  as  may  be.  O'Daly  looked  around  for  the  rider, 
but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen;  he,  however,  soon  disco- 
vered, close  to  where  the  pony  stood,  an  opening  in  the 
mountain  like  the  mouth  of  a  pit,  and  he  remembered 
having  heard,  when  a  child,  many  a  tale  about  the  "  Poul- 
duve,"  or  Black  Hole  of  Knockfierna;  how  it  was  the  en- 
trance to  the  fairy  castle  which  was  within  the  mountain; 
and  how  a  man  whose  name  was  Ahern,  a  land  surveyor 
in  that  part  of  the  country,  had  once  attempted  to  fathom 
it  with  a  line,  and  had  been  drawn  down  into  it,  and  was 
never  again  heard  of;  with  many  other  tales  of  the  like  na- 
ture. 

"  But,"  thought  O'Daly,  *«  these  are  old  woman's  sto- 
ries: and  since  I've  come  up  so  far,  I'll  just  knock  at  the 
castle  door  and  see  if  the  fairies  are  at  home." 

No  sooner  said  than  done;  for,  seizing  a  large  stone,  as 
big,  ay,  bigger  than  his  two  hands,  he  flung  it  with  all  his 


20  THE  LEGEND  OP  KNOCKPIERNA. 

Strength  down  into  the  Poul-duve  of  Knockfierna.  He 
heard  it  bounding  and  tumbling  about  from  one  rock  to 
another  with  a  terrible  noise,  and  he  leaned  his  head  over  to 
try  and  hear  when  it  would  reach  the  bottom, — and  what 
should  the  very  stone  he  had  thrown  in  do  but  come  up 
again  with  as  much  force  as  it  had  gone  down,  and  gave 
him  such  a  blow  full  in  the  face,  that  it  sent  him  rolling 
down  the  side  of  Knockfierna,  head  over  heels,  tumbling 
from  one  crag  to  another,  much  faster  than  he  came  up. 
And  in  the  morning  Carroll  O'Daly  was  found  lying  beside 
his  horse;  the  bridge  of  his  nose  broken,  which  disfigured 
him  for  life;  his  head  all  cut  and  bruised,  and  both  his  eyes 
closed  up,  and  as  black  as  if  Sir  Daniel  Donnelly  had  painted 
them  for  him. 

Carroll  O'Daly  was  never  bold  again  in  riding  along  near 
the  haunts  of  the  fairies  after  dusk;  but  small  blame  to  him 
for  that;  and  if  ever  he  happened  to  be  benighted  in  alone- 
some  place,  he  would  make  the  best  of  his  wa}^  to  his  jour- 
ney's end,  without  asking  questions,  or  turning  to  the  right 
or  to  the  left,  to  seek  after  the  good  people,  or  any  who 
kept  company  with  them. 


21 


THE 


LEGEND    OF    KNOCKGRAFTON. 


III. 

There  was  once  a  poor  man  who  lived  in  the  fertile 
glen  of  Aherlow,  at  the  foot  of  the  gloomy  Galtee  moun- 
tains, and  he  had  a  great  hump  on  his  back:  he  looked  just 
as  if  his  body  had  been  rolled  up  and  placed  upon  his 
shoulders;  and  his  head  was  pressed  down  with  the  weight 
so  much,  that  his  chin,  when  he  was  sitting,  used  to  rest 
upon  his  knees  for  support.  The  country  people  Vi^ere  ra- 
ther shy  of  meeting  him  in  any  lonesome  place,  for  though, 
poor  creature,he  was  as  harmless  and  as  inoffensive  as  a  new- 
born infant,  yet  his  deformity  was  so  great,  that  he  scarcely 
appeared  to  be  a  human  being.  And  some  ill-minded  per- 
sons had  set  strange  stories  about  him  afloat.  He  was  said 
to  have  a  great  knowledge  of  herbs  and  charms;  but  certain 
it  was  that  he  had  a  mighty  skilful  hand  in  platting  straw 
and  rushes  into  hats  and  baskets,  which  was  the  way  he 
made  his  livelihood. 

Lusmore,  for  that  was  the  nickname  put  upon  him  by 
reason  of  his  alvvays  wearing  a  sprig  of  the  fairy  cap,  or 
lusmore,*  in  his  little  straw  hat,  would  ever  get  a  higher 
penny  for  his  plaited  work  than  any  one  else,  and  perhaps 
that  was  the  reason  why  some  one,  out  of  envy,  had  circu- 
lated the  strange  stories  about  him.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it 
happened  that  he  was  returning  one  evening  from  the 
pretty  town  of  Cahir  towards  Cappagh,  and  as  little  Lus- 
more walked  very  slowly,  on  account  of  the  great  hump 
upon  his  back,  it  was  quite  dark  when  he  came  to  the  old 
moat  of  Knockgrafton,  which  stood  on  the  right  hand  side 
of  his  road.     Tired  and  weary  was  he,  and  noways  com- 

*  Literally,  the  great  heTh-^Digitalis  purpurea. 


22      ~  THE  LEGEND  OF  KNOCKGRAPTON. 

fortable  in  his  own  mind  at  thinking  how  much  farther  he 
had  to  travel,  and  that  he  should  be  walking  all  the  night; 
so  he  sat  down  under  the  moat  to  rest, himself,  and  began 
looking  mournfully  enough  upon  the  moon,  which, 

"  Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length, 
Apparent  Queen,  unveil'd  her  peerless  light. 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threw." 

Presentl}^  there  rose  a  wild  strain  of  unearthly  melody 
upon  the  ear  of  little  Lusmore;  he  listened,  and  he  thought 
that  he  had  never  heard  such  ravishing  music  before.  It 
was  like  the  sound  of  many  voices,  each  mingling  and 
blending  with  the  other  so  strangely,  that  the}^  seemed  to 
be  one,  though  all  singing  different  strains,  and  the  words 
of  the  song  were  these: — 

Da  Luan,  Da  Mori,  Da  Luan,  Da  Mort,  Da  Luan,  Da 
^^/or/,  when  there  would  be  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  the 
round  of  melod}'-  went  on  again. 

Lusmorelistenedattentively,scarcel3^  drawing  his  breath, 
lest  he  might  lose  the  slightest  note.  He  now  plainly  per- 
ceived that  the  singing  was  within  the  moat,  and,  though 
at  first  it  had  charmed  him  so  much,  he  began  to  get  tired 
of  hearing  the  same  round  sung  over  and  over  so  often 
without  any  change;  so,  availing  himself  of  the  pause  when 
the  Da  Luan,  Da  Mori,  had  been  sung  three  times,  he  took 
up  the  tune  and  raised  it  with  the  words  augus  Da  Cadine, 
and  then  went  on  singing  with  the  voices  inside  of  the 
moat,  Da  Luan,  Da  Mort,  finishing  the  melody  when  the 
pause  again  came,  with  augus  Da  Cadine.^ 

The  fairies  within  Knockgrafton,  for  the  song  was  a 
fairy  melody,  when  they  heard  this  addition  to  their  tune, 
were  so  much  delighted,  that  with  instant  resolve  it  was 
determined  to  bring  the  mortal  among  them,  whose  musi- 
cal skill  so  far  exceeded  theirs,  and  little  Lusmore  was 
conveyed  into  their  company  with  the  eddying  speed  of  a 
whirlwind. 

Glorious  to  behold  was  the  sight  that  burst  upon  him  as 
he  came  down  through  the  moat,  twirling  round  and  round 
with  the  lightness  of  a  straw,  to  the  sweetest  music  that 

*  Correctly  written,  Dla  Luain,  Dla  Mairt,  agus  Dla  Ceadaoine,  i.  e. 
Monday,  Tuesday,  and  Wednesday, 


THE  LEGEND  OP  KNOCKGRAFTON.  23 

kept  time  to  his  motion.  The  greatest  honour  was  then 
paid  him,  for  he  was  put  up  above  all  the  musicians,  and 
he  had  servants  tending  upon  him,  and  every  thing  to  his 
heart's  content,  and  a  hearty  welcome  to  all;  and,  in  short, 
he  was  made  as  much  of  as  if  he  had  been  the  first  man  in 
the  land. 

Presently  Lusmore  saw  a  great  consultation  going  for- 
ward among  the  fairies,  and,  notwithstanding  all  their  civi- 
lity, he  felt  very  much  frightened,  until  one,  stepping  out 
from  the  rest,  came  up  to  him,  and  said, — 

"Lusmore!  Lusmore! 
Doubt  not,  nor  deplore, 
For  the  hump  which  you  bore 
On  your  back  is  no  more! — 
Look  down  on  the  floor, 
And  view  it,  Lusmore!" 

When  these  words  were  said,  poor  little  Lusmore  felt  him- 
self so  light,  and  so  happy,  that  he  thought  he  could  have 
bounded  at  one  jump  over  the  moon,  like  the  cow  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  cat  and  the  fiddle;  and  he  saw,  with  inexpressi- 
ble pleasure,  iiis  hump  tumble  down  upon  the  ground  from 
his  shoulders.  He  then  tried  to  lift  up  his  head,  and  he  did 
so  with  becoming  caution,  fearing  that  he  might  knock  it 
against  the  ceiling  of  the  grand  hall,  where  he  was;  he 
looked  round  and  round  again  with  the  greatest  wonder 
and  delight  upon  every  thing,  which  appeared  more  and 
more  beautiful;  and,  overpowered  at  beholding  such  a  re- 
splendent scene,  his  head  grew  dizzy,  and  his  eyesight  be- 
came dim.  At  last  he  fell  into  a  sound  sleep,  and  when  he 
awoke,  he  found  that  it  was  broad  daylight,  the  sun  shining 
brightly,  the  birds  singing  sweet;  and  that  he  was  lying 
just  at  the  foot  of  the  moat  of  Knockgrafton,  with  the  cows 
and  sheep  grazing  peaceably  round  about  him.  The  first 
thing  Lusmore  did,  after  saying  his  prayers,  was  to  put  his 
hand  behind  to  feel  for  his  hump,  but  no  sign  of  one  was 
there  on  his  back,  and  he  looked  at  himself  with  great 
pride,  for  he  had  now  become  a  well-shaped  dapper  little 
fellow;  and  more  than  that,  he  found  himself  in  a  full  suit 
of  new  clothes,  which  he  concluded  the  fairies  had  made 
for  him. 

Towards  Cappagh  he  went,  stepping  out  as  lightly,  and 


24  THE  LEGEND  OP  KNOCKGRAFTON. 

springing  up  at  every  step,  as  if  he  had  been  all  his  life  a 
dancing-master.  Not  a  creature  who  met  J^usmore  knew 
him  without  his  hump,  and  he  had  great  work  to  persuade 
every  one  that  he  was  the  same  man — in  truth  he  was  not, 
so  far  as  outward  appearance  went. 

Of  course  it  was  not  long  before  the  story  of  Lusmore's 
hump  got  about,  and  a  great  wonder  was  made  of  it. 
Through  the  country,  for  miles  round,  it  was  the  talk  of 
every  one,  high  and  low. 

One  morning  as  Lusmore  was  sitting  contented  enough 
at  his  cabin-door,  up  came  an  old  woman  to  him,  and  asked 
if  he  could  direct  her  to  Cappagh. 

"  I  need  give  you  no  directions,  my  good  woman,"  said 
Lusmore,  "  for  this  is  Cappagh;  and  who  do  j'ou  want 
here?" 

"  I  have  come,"  said  the  woman,  «*  out  of  Decie's  coun- 
try, in  the  county  of  Waterford,  looking  after  one  Lus- 
more, who,  I  have  heard  tell,  had  his  hump  taken  off  by 
the  fairies:  for  there  is  a  son  of  a  gossip  of  mine  has  got  a 
hump  on  him  that  will  be  his  death;  and  may  be,  if  he 
could  use  the  same  charm  as  Lusmore,  the  hump  may  be 
taken  off  him.  And  now  I  have  told  you  the  reason  of  my 
coming  so  far:  'tis  to  find  out  about  this  charm,  if  I  can." 

Lusmore,  who  was  ever  a  good-natured  little  fellow, 
told  the  woman  all  the  particulars,  how  he  had  raised  the 
tune  for  the  fairies  at  Knockgrafton,  how  his  hump  had 
been  removed  from  his  shoulders,  and  how  he  had  got  a 
new  suit  of  clothes  into  the  bargain. 

The  woman  thanked  him  very  much,  and  then  went 
away  quite  happy  and  easy  in  her  own  mind.  When  she 
came  back  to  her  gossip's  house,  in  the  county  Waterford, 
she  told  her  every  thing  that  Lusmore  had  said,  and  they 
put  the  little  hump-backed  man,  who  was  a  peevish  and 
cunning  creature  from  his  birth,  upon  a  car,  and  took  him 
all  the  way  across  the  country.  It  was  a  long  journey,  but 
they  did  not  care  for  that,  so  the  hump  was  taken  from  off 
him;  and  they  brought  him,  just  at  nightfall,  and  left  him 
under  the  old  moat  of  Knockgrafton. 

Jack  Madden  for  that  was  the  humpy  man's  name, 
had  not  been  sitting  there  long  when  he  heard  the  tune 
going   on  within  the   moat  much   sweeter  than   before;^ 


THE  LEGEND  OP  KNOCKGRAFTON.  25 

for  the  fairies  were  singing  it  the  way  Lusmore  had  set- 
tled their  music  for  them,  and  the  song  was  going  on:  Da 
Luan,  Da  J\Iort,  Da  Luan,  Da  Mort,  Da  Luan,  Da  Mort, 
augus  Da  Cadine,  without  ever  stopping.  Jack  Madden, 
who  was  in  a  great  hurry  to  get  quit  of  his  hump,  never 
thought  of  waiting  until  the  fairies  had  done,  or  watching 
for  a  fit  opportunity  to  raise  the  tune  higher  again  than 
Lusmore  had:  so  having  heard  them  sing  it  over  seven 
times  without  stopping,  out  he  bawls,  never  minding  the 
time,  or  the  humour  of  the  tune,  or  how  he  could  bring 
his  words  in  properly,  augus  da  Cadine  augus  Da  Hena,* 
thinking  that  if  one  day  was  good,  two  were  better;  and 
that,  if  Lusmore  had  one  new  suit  of  clothes  given  to  him, 
he  should  have  two. 

No  sooner  had  the  words  passed  his  lips  than  he  was 
taken  up  and  whisked  into  the  moat  with  prodigious  force; 
and  the  fairies  came  crowding  round  about  him  with  great 
anger,  screeching  and  screaming,  and  roaring  out,  "Who 
spoiled  our  tune?  who  spoiled  our  tune?"  and  one  stepped 
up  to  him  above  all  the  rest  and  said — 

"Jack  Madden!  Jack  Madden! 
Your  words  came  so  bad  in 
The  tune  we  feel  glad  in; — 
This  castle  you're  had  in, 
That  your  life  we  may  sadden; — 
Here's  two  humps  for  Jack  Madden!" 

And  twenty  of  the  strongest  fairies  brought  Lusmore's 
hump,  and  put  it  down  upon  poor  Jack's  back,  over  his 
own,  where  it  became  fixed  as  firmly,  as  if  it  was  nailed  on 
with  twelvepenny  nails,  by  the  best  carpenter  that  ever 
drove  one.  Out  of  their  castle  they  then  kicked  him;  and 
in  the  morning,  when  Jack  Madden's  mother  and  her  gossip 
came  to  look  after  iheir  litlle  man,  they  found  him  half 
dead,  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  moat,  with  the  other  hump 
upon  his  back.  Well,  to  be  sure  how  they  did  look  at 
each  other!  but  they  were  afraid  to  say  any  thing,  lest  a 
hump  might  be  put  upon  their  own  shoulders:  home  they 
brought  the  unlucky  Jack  Madden  with  them,  as  downcast 
in  their  hearts  and  their  looks  as  ever  two  gossips  were; 

*  And  Wednesday  and  Thursday. 
3 


26 


and  what  through  the  weight  of  his  other  hump  and  the 
long  journey,  he  died  soon  after,  leaving,  they  say,  his 
heavy  curse  to  any  one  who  would  go  to  listen  to  fairy 
tunes  again. 


THE  PRIEST'S  SUPPER. 


IV. 


It  is  said  by  those  who  ought  to  understand  such  things, 
that  the  good  people,  or  the  fairies,  are  some  of  the  angels 
who  were  turned  out  of  heaven,  and  who  landed  on  their 
feet  in  this  world,  while  the  rest  of  their  companions,  who 
had  more  sin  to  sink  them,  went  down  further  to  a  worse 
place.  Be  this  as  it  may,  there  was  a  merry  troop  of  the 
fairies,  dancing  and  playing  all  manner  of  wild  pranks  on 
a  bright  moonlight  evening  towards  the  end  of  September. 
The  scene  of  their  merriment  was  not  far  distant  from  In- 
chegeela,  in  the  west  of  the  county  Cork — a  poor  village, 
although  it  had  a  barrack  for  soldiers;  but  great  mountains 
and  barren  rocks,  like  those  round  about  it,  are  enough  to 
strike  poverty  into  any  place:  however,  as  the  fairies  can 
have  every  thing  they  want  for  wishing,  poverty  does  not 
trouble  them  much,  and  all  their  care  is  to  seek  out  unfre- 
quented nooks  and  places  where  it  is  not  likely  any  one 
will  come  to  spoil  their  sport. 

On  a  nice  green  sod  by  the  river's  side  were  the  little 
fellows  dancing  in  a  ring  as  gaily  as  may  be,  with  their  red 


THE  PRIEST^S  SUPPER.  27 

caps  wagging  about  at  every  bound  in  the  moonshine;  and 
so  light  were  these  bounds,  that  the  lobes  of  dew,  although 
they  trembled  under  their  feet,  were  not  disturbed  by  their 
capering.  Thus  did  they  carry  on  their  gambols,  spinning 
round  and  round,  and  twirling  and  bobbing,  and  diving  and 
going  through  all  manner  of  figures,  until  one  of  them 
chirped  out — 

**  Cease,  cease  with  your  drumming, 
Here's  an  end  to  our  mumming; 

By  my  smell 

I  can  tell 
A  priest  this  way  is  coming!" 

And  away  every  one  of  the  fairies  scampered  off  as  hard 
as  they  could,  concealing  themselves  under  the  green  leaves 
of  the  lusmore,  where,  if  their  little  red  caps  should  hap- 
pen to  peep  out,  they  would  only  look  like  its  crimson 
bells;  and  more  hid  themselves  in  the  hollow  of  stones;  or 
at  the  shady  side  of  brambles,  and  others  under  the  bank 
of  the  river,  and  in  holes  Smd  crannies  of  one  kind  or  ano- 
ther. 

The  fairy  speaker  was  not  mistaken;  for  along  the  road, 
which  was  within  view  of  the  river,  came  Father  Horrigan 
on  his  pony,  thinking  to  himself  that  as  it  was  so  late  he 
would  make  an  end  of  his  journey  at  the  first  cabin  he 
came  to.  According  to  this  determination,  he  stopped  at 
the  dwelling  of  Dermod  Leary,  lifted  the  latch,  and  entered 
with  "  My  blessing  on  all  here." 

I  need  not  say  that  Father  Horrigan  was  a  welcome  guest 
wherever  he  went,  for  no  man  was  more  pious  or  better 
beloved  in  the  country.  Now  it  was  a  great  trouble  to 
Dermod  that  he  had  nothing  to  offer  his  reverence  for  sup- 
per as  a  relish  to  the  potatoes  which  "the  old  woman,'' 
for  so  Dermod  called  his  wife,  though  she  was  not  much 
past  twenty,  had  down  boiling  in  the  pot  over  the  fire:  he 
thought  of  the  net  which  he  had  set  in  the  river,  but  as  it 
had  been  there  only  a  short  time,  the  chances  were  against 
his  finding  a  fish  in  it.  "  No  matter,"  thought  Dermod, 
"  there  can  be  no  harm  in  stepping  down  to  try,  and  may 
be  as  1  want  the  fish  for  the  priest's  supper,  that  one  will 
be  there  before  me." 


28 

Down  to  the  river-side  went  Dermod,  and  he  found  in 
the  net  as  fine  a  salmon  as  ever  jumped  in  the  bright  waters 
of  "the  spreading  Lee;"  but  as  he  was  going  to  take  it 
out,  the  net  was  pulled  from  him,  he  could  not  tell  how  or 
by  whom,  and  away  got  the  salmon,  and  went  swimming 
along  with  the  current  as  gaily  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
Dermod  looked  sorrowfully  at  the  wake  which  the  fish 
had  left  upon  the  water,  shining  like  a  line  of  silver  in  the 
moonlight,  and  then,  with  an  angry  motion  of  his  right 
hand,  and  a  stamp  of  his  foot,  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  by 
muttering,  "  May  bitter  bad  luck  attend  you  night  and  day 
for  a  blackguard  schemer  of  a  salmon,  wherever  you  go! 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  if  there's  any  shame 
in  you  to  give  me  the  slip  after  this  fashion!  And  I'm 
clear  in  my  own  mind  you'll  come  to  no  good,  for  some 
kind  of  evil  thing  or  other  helped  you — did  I  not  feel  it 
pull  the  net  against  me  as  strong  as  the  devil  himself?" 

"  That's  not  true  for  you,"  said  one  of  the  little  fairies, 
who  had  scampered  ofi*  at  the  approach  of  the  priest,  coming 
up  to  Dermod  Leary,  with  a  whole  throng  of  companions 
at  his  heels;  "there  was  only  a  dozen  and  a  half  of  us  pull- 
ing against  you." 

Dermod  gazed  on  the  tiny  speaker  with  wonder,  who 
continued:  "Make  yourself  noways  uneasy  about  the 
priest's  supper;  for  if  you  will  go  back  and  ask  him  one 
question  from  us,  there  will  be  as  fine  a  supper  as  ever  was 
put  on  a  table  spread  out  before  him  in  less  than  no  time." 
"  I'll  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  you,"  replied  Dermod, 
in  a  tone  of  determination ;  and  after  a  pause  he  added,  "I'm 
much  obliged  to  you  for  your  offer,  sir,  but  I  know  better 
than  to  sell  myself  to  you  or  the  like  of  you  for  a  supper; 
and  more  than  that,  I  know  Father  Horrigan  has  more 
regard  for  my  soul  than  to  wish  me  to  pledge  it  for  ever, 
out  of  regard  to  any  thing  you  could  put  before  him — so 
there's  an  end  of  the  matter." 

The  little  speaker,  with  a  pertinacity  not  to  be  repulsed 
by  Dermod's  manner,  continued,  "Will  you  ask  the  priest 
one  civil  question  for  us?" 

Dermod  considered  for  some  time,  and  he  was  right  in 
doing  so,  but  he  thought  that  no  one  could  come  to  harm 
out  of  asking  a  civil  question.     "  I  see  no  objection  to  do 


THE  priest's  supper.  29 

that  same,  gentlemen/'  said  Dermod;  "But  I  will  have 
nothing  in  life  to  do  with  your  supper, — mind  that/' 

"  Then,"  said  the  little  speaking  fairy,  whilst  the  rest 
came  crowding  after  him  from  all  parts,  "  go  and  ask  Father 
Horrigan  to  tell  us  whether  our  souls  will  be  saved  at  the 
last  day,  like  the  souls  of  good  Christians;  and  if  you  wish 
us  well,  bring  back  word  what  he  says  without  delay." 

Away  went  Dermod  to  his  cabin,  where  he  found  the 
potatoes  thrown  out  on  the  table,  and  his  good  wife  handing 
the  biggest  of  them  all,  a  beautiful  laughing  red  apple, 
smoking  like  a  hard-ridden  horse  on  a  frosty  night,  over 
to  Father  Horrigan. 

"  Please  your  reverence,"  said  Dermod,  after  some  he- 
sitation, "may  I  make  bold  to  ask  your  honour  one  ques- 
tion?" 

"What  may  that  be?"  said  Father  Horrigan. 

"Why,  then,  begging  your  reverence's  pardon  for  my 
freedom,  it  is,  if  the  souls  of  the  good  people  are  to  be  saved 
at  the  last  day?" 

"Who  bid  5^ou  ask  me  that  question,  Leary?"  said  the 
priest,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  him  very  sternly,  which  Der- 
mod could  not  stand  before  at  all. 

"I'll  tell  no  lies  about  the  matter,  and  nothing  in  life 
but  the  truth,"  said  Dermod.  "  It  was  the  good  people 
themselves  who  sent  me  to  ask  the  question,  and  there 
they  are  in  thousands  down  on  the  bank  of  the  river  waiting 
for  me  to  go  back  with  the  answer." 

" Go  back  by  all  means,"  said  the  priest,  "and  tell  them, 
if  they  want  to  know,  to  come  here  to  me  themselves,  and 
I'll  answer  that  or  any  other  question  they  are  pleased  to 
ask,  with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  life." 

Dermod  accordingly  returned  to  the  fairies,  who  came 
swarming  round  about  him  to  hear  what  the  priest  had 
said  in  reply;  and  Dermod  spoke  out  among  them  like  a 
bold  man  as  he  was:  but  when  they  heard  that  they  must  go 
to  the  priest,  away  they  fled,  some  here  and  more  there;  and 
some  this  way  and  more  that,  whisking  by  poor  Dermod 
so  fast  and  in  such  numbers,  that  he  was  quite  bewildered. 

When  he  came  to  himself,  which  was  not  for  a  long  time, 
back  he  went  to  his  cabin  and  ate  his  dry  potatoes  along 
with  Father  Horrigan,  who  made  quite  light  of  the  thing; 


30  THE  BREWERY  OF  EGG-SHELLS. 

but  Dermod  could  not  help  thinking  it  a  mighty  hard  case 
that  his  reverence,  whose  words  had  the  power  to  banish 
the  fairies  at  such  a  rate,  should  have  no  sort  of  relish  to 
his  supper,  and  that  the  fine  salmon  he  had  in  the  net  should 
have  been  got  away  from  him  in  such  a  manner. 


THE 


BREWERY  OF  EGG-SHELLS. 


It  may  be  considered  impertinent,  were  I  to  explain 
what  is  meant  by  a  changeling;  both  Shakspeare  and  Spen- 
ser have  already  done  so,  and  who  is  there  unacquainted 
with  the  Mid-summer  Night's  Dream*  and  the  Fairy 
QueenPt 

Now  Mrs.  Sullivan  fancied  that  her  youngest  child  had 
been  changed  by  "fairies'  theft,"  to  use  Spenser's  words, 
and  certainly  appearances  warranted  such  a  conclusion  j  for 
in  one  night  her  healthy,  blue-eyed  boy  had  become  shri- 
velled up  into  almost  nothing,  and  never  ceased  squalling 
and  crying.  This  naturally  made  poor  Mrs.  Sullivan  very 
unhappy;  and  all  the  neighbours,  by  way  of  comforting  her, 
said,  that  her  own  child  was,  beyond  any  kind  of  doubt, 

*  Act  ii.  sc.  1.  t  Book  i.  canto  10. 


THE  BREWERY  OP  EGG-SHELLS.  31 

with  the  good  people,  and  that  one  of  themselves  had  been 
put  in  his  place. 

Mrs.  Sullivan,  of  course,  could  not  disbelieve  what  every 
one  told  her,  but  she  did  not  wish  to  hurt  the  thing;  for 
although  its  face  was  so  withered,  and  its  body  wasted 
away  to  a  mere  skeleton,  it  had  still  a  strong  resemblance 
to  her  own  boy;  she,  therefore,  could  not  find  it  in  her 
heart  to  roast  it  alive  on  the  griddle,  or  to  burn  its  nose 
off  with  the  red-hot  tongs,  or  to  throw  it  out  in  the  snow 
on  the  road-side,  notwithstanding  these,  and  several  like 
proceedings,  were  strongly  recommended  to  her  for  the 
recovery  of  her  child. 

One  day  who  should  Mrs.  Sullivan  meet  but  a  cunning 
woman,  well  known  about  the  country  by  the  name  of 
Ellen  Leah  (or  Gray  Ellen).  She  had  the  gift,  however 
she  got  it,  of  telling  where  the  dead  were,  and  what  was 
good  for  the  rest  of  their  souls;  and  could  charm  away 
warts  and  wens,  and  do  a  great  many  wonderful  things  of 
the  same  nature. 

"You're  in  grief  this  morning,  Mrs.  Sullivan/^  were  the 
first  words  of  Ellen  Leah  to  her. 

"  You  may  say  that,  Ellen,"  said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  "  and 
good  cause  1  have  to  be  in  grief,  for  there  was  my  own  fine 
child  whipped  off"  from  me  out  of  his  cradle,  without  as 
much  as  by  your  leave,  or  ask  your  pardon,  and  an  ugly 
deny  bit  of  a  shrivelled-up  fairy  put  in  his  place;  no 
wonder  then  that  you  see  me  in  grief,  Ellen." 

"Small  blame  to  you,  Mrs.  Sullivan,"  said  Ellen  Leah; 
"but  are  you  sure  'tis  a  fairy?" 

"Sure!"  echoed  Mrs.  Sullivan,  "sure  enough  am  I  to 
my  sorrow,  and  can  I  doubt  my  own  two  eyes.^  Every 
mother's  soul  must  feel  for  me!" 

"Will  you  take  an  old  woman's  advice?"  said  Ellen 
Leah,  fixing  her  wild  and  mysterious  gaze  upon  the  un- 
happy mother;  and,  after  a  pause,  she  added,  "  but  may 
be  you'll  call  it  foolish?" 

"Can  you  get  me  back  my  child, — my  own  child,  Ellen?" 
said  Mrs.  Sullivan  with  great  energy. 

"If  you  do  as  I  bid  you,"  returned  Ellen  Leah,  "you'll 
know."  Mrs.  Sullivan  was  silent  in  expectation,  and  Ellen 
continued.     "  Put  down  the  big  pot,  full  of  water,  on  the 


32  THE  BREWERY  OF  EGG-SHELLS. 

fire,  and  make  it  boil  like  mad;  then  get  a  dozen  new-laid 
eggs,  break  them,  and  keep  the  shells,  but  throw  away  the 
rest;  when  that  is  done,  put  the  shells  in  the  pot  of  boiling 
water,  and  you  will  soon  know  whether  it  is  your  own 
boy  or  a  fairy.  If  you  find  that  it  is  a  fairy  in  the  cradle, 
take  the  red-hot  poker  and  cram  it  down  his  ugly  throat, 
and  you  will  not  have  much  trouble  with  him  after  that, 
I  promise  you." 

Home  went  Mrs.  Sullivan,  and  did  as  Ellen  Leah  de- 
sired. She  put  the  pot  in  the  fire,  and  plenty  of  turf  under 
it,  and  set  the  water  boiling  at  such  a  rate  that  if  ever 
water  was  red  hot — it  surely  was. 

The  child  was  lying  for  a  wonder  quite  easy  and  quiet 
in  the  cradle,  every  now  and  then  cocking  his  eye,  that 
would  twinkle  as  keen  as  a  star  in  a  frosty  night,  over  at 
the  great  fire,  and  the  big  pot  upon  it;  and  he  looked  on 
with  great  attention  at  Mrs.  Sullivan  breaking  the  eggs, 
and  putting  down  the  egg-shells  to  boil.  At  last  he  asked, 
with  the  voice  of  a  very  old  man,  "  What  are  you  doing, 
mammy?'' 

Mrs.  Sullivan's  heart,  as  she  said  herself,  was  up  in  her 
mouth  ready  to  choke  her,  at  hearing  the  child  speak. 
But  she  contrived  to  put  the  poker  in  the  fire,  and  to  an- 
swer, without  making  any  wonder  at  the  words,  "  I'm 
brewing,  a  vick''  (my  son). 

"And  what  are  you  brewing,  mammy?''  said  the  little 
imp,  whose  supernatural  gift  of  speech  now  proved  beyond 
question  that  he  was  a  fairy  substitute. 

"  I  wisli  the  poker  was  red,"  thought  Mrs.  Sullivan;  but 
it  was  a  large  .one,  and  took  a  long  time  heating:  so  she 
determined  to  keep  him  in  talk  until  the  poker  was  in  a 
proper  state  to  thrust  down  his  throat,  and  therefore  re- 
peated the  question. 

"  Is  it  what  I'm  brewing,  a  vick/'  said  she,  "you  want 
to  know?" 

"Yes,  mammy:  what  are  you  brewing?"  returned  the 
fairy. 

"  Egg-shells,  a  vick,^'  said  Mrs.  Sullivan. 

*'0h!"  shrieked  the  imp,  starting  up  in  the  cradle,  and 
clapping  his  hands  together,  "I'm  fifteen  hundred  years  in 
the  world,  and  I  never  saw  a  brewery  of  egg-shells  before!" 


THE  BREWERY  OP  EGG-SHELLS.  33 

The  poker  was  by  this  time  quite  red,  and  Mrs.  Sullivan 
seizing  it,  ran  furiousl}'-  towards  the  cradle;  but  somehow 
or  other  her  foot  slipped,  and  she  fell  flat  on  the  floor,  and 
the  poker  flew  out  of  her  hand  to  the  other  end  of  the 
house.  However,  she  got  up,  without  much  loss  of  time, 
and  went  to  the  cradle  intending  to  pitch  the  wicked  thing 
that  was  in  it  into  the  pot  of  boiling  water,  when  there  she 
saw  her  own  child  in  a  sweet  sleep,  one  of  his  soft  round 
arms  rested  upon  the  pillow — his  features  were  as  placid 
as  if  their  repose  had  never  been  disturbed,  save  the  rosy 
mouth  which  moved  with  a  gentle  and  regular  breathing. 

Who  can  tell  the  feelings  of  a  mother  when  she  looks 
upon  her  sleeping  child?  Why  should  I,  therefore,  endea- 
vour to  describe  those  of  Mrs.  Sullivan  at  again  beholding 
her  long-lost  boy?  The  fountain  of  her  heart  overflowed 
with  the  excess  of  joy — and  she  wept! — tears  trickled 
silently  down  her  cheeks,  nor  did  she  strive  to  check  them 
— they  were  tears  not  of  sorrow,  but  of  happiness. 


34 


LEGEND  OF  BOTTLE  HILL. 


VL 

"Come  listen  to  a  tale  of  times  of  old, 
Come  listen  to  me — " 

It  was  in  the  good  days,  when  the  little  people,  most 
impudently  called  fairies,  were  more  frequently  seen  than 
they  are  in  these  unbelieving  times,  that  a  farmer,  named 
Mick  Purcell,  rented  a  few  acres  of  barren  ground  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  once  celebrated  preceptory  of  l^ourne, 
situated  about  three  miles  from  Mallow,  and  thirteen  from 
« the  beautiful  city  called  Cork.'^  Mick  had  a  wife  and 
family:  they  all  did  what  they  could,  and  that  was  but  little, 
for  the  poor  man  had  no  child  grown  up  big  enough  to  help 
him  in  his  work:  and  all  the  poor  woman  could  do  was  to 
mind  the  children,  and  to  milk  the  one  cow,  and  to  boil 
the  potatoes,  and  to  carry  the  eggs  to  market  to  Mallow; 
but  with  all  they  could  do,  'twas  hard  enough  on  them,  to 
pay  the  rent.  Well,  they  did  manage  it  for  a  good  while; 
but  at  last  came  a  bad  year,  and  the  little  grain  of  oats  was 
all  spoiled,  and  the  chickens  died  of  the  pip,  and  the  pig 
got  the  measles, — she  was  sold  in  Mallow,  and  brought  al- 
most nothing;  and  poor  Mick  found  that  he  hadn't  enough 
to  half  pay  his  rent,  and  two  gales  were  due. 

"Why  then,  Molly,"  says  he,  "  what'll  we  do?" 

"  Wisha,  then,  mavournene,  what  would  you  do  but  take 
the  cow  to  the  fair  of  Cork  and  sell  her?"  says  she;  "and 
Monday  is  fair  day,  and  so  you  must  go  to-morrow,  that 
the  poor  beast  may  be  rested  again  the  fair." 

*'And  what'll  we  do  when  she's  gone?"  says  Mick, 
sorrowfully. 

"  Never  a  know  I  know,  Mick;  but  sure  God  won't 
leave  us  without  Him,  Mick;  and  you  know  how  good  He 
was  to  us  when  poor  little  Billy  was  sick,  and  we  had 
nothing  at  all  for  him  to  take,  that  good  doctor  gentleman 


LEGEND  OF  BOTTLE  HILL.  35 

at  Ballydahin  come  riding  and  asking  for  a  drink  of  milk; 
and  how  he  gave  us  two  shillings;  and  how  he  sent  the 
things  and  bottles  for  the  child,  and  gave  me  my  breakfast 
when  I  went  over  to  ask  a  question,  so  he  did:  and  how  he 
came  to  see  Billy,  and  never  left  oflf  his  goodness  till  he 
was  quite  well?^' 

^'Oh!  you  are  always  that  way,  Molly,  and  I  believe 
you  are  right  after  all,  so  1  won't  be  sorry  for  selling  the 
cow;  but  I'll  go  to  morrow,  and  you  must  put  a  needle 
and  thread  through  my  coat,  for  you  know  'tis  ripped 
under  the  arm." 

Molly  told  him  he  should  have  every  thing  right;  and 
about  twelve  o'clock  next  day  he  left  her,  getting  a  charge 
not  to  sell  his  cow  except  for  the  highest  penny.  Mick 
promised  to  mind  it,  and  went  his  way  along  the  road. 
He  drove  his  cow  slowly  through  the  little  stream  which 
crosses  it  and  runs  by  the  old  walls  of  Mourne.  As  he 
passed  he  glanced  his  eye  upon  the  towers  and  one  of  the 
old  elder  trees  vvhich  were  only  then  little  bits  of  switches. 

"  Oh,  then,  if  I  only  had  half  the  money  that's  buried  in 
you,  'tisn't  driving  this  poor  cow  I'd  be  now!  Why,  then, 
isn't  it  too  bad  that  it  should  be  there  covered  over  with 
earth,  and  many  a  one  besides  me  wanting]  Well,  if  it  is 
God's  will,  I'll  have  some  money  myself  coming  back.'^ 

So  saying;  he  moved  on  after  his  beast;  'twas  a  fine  day, 
and  the  sun  shone  brightly  on  the  walls  of  the  old  abbey 
as  he  passed  under  them;  he  then  crossed  an  extensive 
mountain  tract,  and  after  six  long  miles  he  came  to  the  top 
of  that  bill — Bottle  Hill  'tis  called  now,  but  that^vas  not 
the  name  of  it  then,  and  just  there  a  man  overtook  him. 

"  Good  morrow,"  says  he.  "  Good  morrow,"  kindly, 
says  Mick,  looking  at  the  stranger,  who  was  a  little  man, 
you'd  almost  call  him  a  dwarf,  only  he  wasn't  quite  so 
little  neither:  he  had  a  bit  of  an  old,  wrinkled,  yellow  face, 
for  all  the  world  like  a  dried  cauliflower,  only  he  had  a 
sharp  little  nose,  and  red  eyes,  and  white  hair,  and  his  lips 
were  not  red,  but  all  his  face  was  one  colour,  and  his  eyes 
never  were  quiet,  but  lookinij;  at  every  thing,  and  although 
they  were  red,  they  made  Mick  feel  quite  cold  when  he 
looked  at  them.  In  truth  he  did  not  much  like  the  little 
man's  company;  and  he  couldn't  see  one  bit  of  his  legs^ 


36  LEGEND  OP  BOTTLE  HILL. 

nor  his  body;  for,  though  the  day  was  warm,  he  was  all 
wrapped  up  in  a  big  great-coat.  Mick  drove  his  cow 
something  faster,  but  the  little  man  kept  up  with  him. 
Mick  didn't  know  how  he  walked,  for  he  was  almost  afraid 
to  look  at  him,  and  to  cross  himself,  for  fear  the  old  man 
would  be  angry.  Yet  he  thought  his  fellow-traveller  did 
not  seem  to  walk  like  other  men,  nor  to  put  one  foot  before 
the  other,  but  to  glide  over  the  rough  road,  and  rough 
enough  it  was,  like  a  shadow,  without  noise  and  without 
effort.  Mick's  heart  trembled  within  him,  and  he  said  a 
prayer  to  himself,  wishing  he  hadn't  come  out  that  day,  or 
that  he  was  on  fair  hill,  or  that  he  hadn't  the  cow  to  mind, 
that  he  might  run  away  from  the  bad  thing — when,  in  the 
midst  of  his  fears,  he  was  again  addressed  by  his  companion. 

"Where  are  you  going  with  the  cow,  honest  man?" 

"  To  the  fair  of  Cork  then,"  says  Mick,  trembling  at  the 
shrill  and  piercing  tones  of  the  voice. 

"Are  you  going  to  sell  her?"  said  the  stranger. 

"  Why,  then,  what  else  am  1  going  for  but  to  sell  her?'^ 

"  Will  you  sell  her  to  me?" 

Mick  started — he  was  afraid  to  have  any  thing  to  do  with 
the  little  man,  and  he  was  more  afraid  to  say  no. 

"  What'll  you  give  for  her?"  at  last  says  he. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  I'll  give  you  this  bottle,"  said  the 
little  one,  pulling  a  bottle  from  under  his  coat. 

Mick  looked  at  him  and  the  bottle,  and,  in  spite  of  his 
terror,  he  could  not  help  bursting  into  a  loud  fit  of  laughter. 

"  Laugh  if  you  will,"  said  the  little  man,  "  but  I  tell  you 
this  bottle  is  better  for  you  than  all  the  money  you  will 
get  for  the  cow  in  Cork — ay,  than  ten  thousand  times  as 
much." 

Mick  laughed  again.  "Why  then,"  says  he,  "do  you 
think  I  am  such  a  fool  as  to  give  my  good  cow  for  a  bottle 
— and  an  empty  one,  too?  indeed,  then,  I  won't." 

"You  had  better  give  me  the  cow,  and  take  the  bottle — 
you'll  not  be  sorry  for  it." 

"  Why,  then,  and  what  would  Molly  say?  I'd  never  hear 
the  end  of  it;  and  how  would  I  pay  the  rent?  and  what 
would  we  all  do  without  a  penny  of  money? 

"  I  tell  you  this  bottle  is  better  to  you  than  money;  take 
it,  and  "give  me  the  cow.  I  ask  you  for  the  last  time,  Mick 
Purcell." 


LEGEND  OF  BOTTLE  HILL.  37 

Mick  started. 

"  How  does  he  know  my  name?"  thought  he. 

The  stranger  proceeded:  <«Mick  Purcell,  I  know  you, 
and  I  have  regard  for  you;  therefore  do  as  I  warn  you,  or 
you  may  he  sorry  for  it.  How  do  you  know  but  your  cow 
will  die  before  you  get  to  Cork?" 

Mick  was  going  to  say  ^'  God  forbid!"  but  the  little  man 
went  on  (and  he  was  too  attentive  to  say  any  thing  to  stop 
him;  for  Mick  was  a  very  civil  man,  and  he  knew  better 
than  to  interrupt  a  gentleman,  and  that's  what  many  people, 
that  hold  their  heads  higher,  don't  mind  now). 

"And  how  do  you  know  but  there  will  be  much  cattle 
at  the  fair,  and  you  will  get  a  bad  price,  or  may  be  you 
might  be  robbed  when  you  are  coming  home?  but  what 
need  I  talk  more  to  you  when  you  are  determined  to  throw 
away  your  luck,  Mick  Purcell? 

"Oh!  no,  I  would  not  throw  away  my  luck,  sir,"  said 
Mick;  "  and  if  I  was  sure  the  bottle  was  as  good  as  you  say, 
though  I  never  liked  an  empty  bottle,  although  I  had  drank 
what  was  in  it,  I'd  give  you  the  cow  in  the  name " 

"Never  mind  names,"  said  the  stranger,  *' hut  give  me 
the  cow;  I  would  not  tell  you  a  lie.  Here,  take  the  bottle, 
and  when  you  go  home  do  what  1  direct  exactly." 

Mick  hesitated. 

"'Well  then,  good  by,  I  can  stay  no  longer:  once  more, 
take  it,  and  be  rich ;  refuse  it,  and  beg  for  your  life,  and  see 
your  children  in  poverty,  and  your  wife  dying  for  want: 
that  will  happen  to  you,  Mick  Purcell!"  said  the  little  man 
withHnynalicious  grin,  which  made  him  look  ten  times  more 
ugly  than  ever. 

"May  be  'tis  true,"  said  Mick,  still  hesitating:  he  did 
not  know  what  to  do — he  could  hardly  help  believing  the 
old  man,  and  at  length  in  a  fit  of  desperation  he  seized  the 
bottle — "  Take  the  cow,"  said  he,  "  and  if  you  are  telling  a 
lie,  the  curse  of  the  poor  will  be  on  you." 

"  I  care  neither  for  your  curses  nor  your  blessings,  but 
1  have  spoken  truth,  Mick  Purcell,  and  that  you  will  find 
to-night,  if  you  do  what  I  tell  you." 

"And  what's  that?"  says  Mick. 

"  When  you  go  home,  never  mind  if  your  wife  is  angry, 
but  be  quiet  yourself,  and  make  her  sweep  the  room  clean, 
4 


38  LEGEND  OF  BOTTLE  HILL, 

set  the  table  out  right,  and  spread  a  clean  cloth  over  it;  then 
put  the  bottle  on  the  ground,  saying  these  words:  'Bottle, 
do  your  duty,'  and  you  will  see  the  end  of  it.'' 

"And  is  this  all?"  says  Mick. 

"  No  more,"  said  the  stranger.  "  Good  by,  Mick  Purcell 
— you  are  a  rich  man." 

"God  grant  it!"  said  Mick,  as  the  old  man  moved  after 
the  cow,  and  Mick  retraced  the  road  towards  his  cabin;  but 
he  could  not  help  turning  back  his  head,  to  look  after  the 
purchaser  of  his  cow,  who  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"Lord  between  us  and  harm!"  said  Mick:  " /f e  can":, 
belong  to  this  earth;  but  where  is  the  cow?"  She  too  was 
gone,  and  Mick  went  homeward  muttering  prayers,  and 
holding  fast  the  bottle. 

"  And  what  would  I  do  if  it  broke?"  thought  he.  "  Oh! 
but  I'll  take  care  of  that;"  so  he  put  it  into  his  bosom,  and 
went  on  anxious  to  prove  his  bottle,  and  doubting  of  the 
reception  he  should  meet  from  his  wife;  balancing  his 
anxieties  with  his  expectations,  his  fears  with  his  hopes, 
he  reached  home  in  the  evening,  and  surprised  his  wife, 
sitting  over  the  turf  fire  in  the  big  chimney. 

"Oh!  Mick,  are  you  come  back!  Sure  you  wer'n't  at 
Cork  all  the  way!  What  has  happened  to  you?  Where 
is  the  cow?  Did  you  sell  her?  How  much  money  did 
you  get  for  her?  What  news  have  you?  Tell  us  every 
thing  about  it." 

"Why  then,  Molly,  if  you'll  give  me  time,  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it.  If  you  want  to  know  where  the  cow  is,  'tisn't 
Mick  can  tell  you,  for  the  never  a  know  does  he-^now 
where  she  is  now." 

"Oh!  then,  you  sold  her;  and  where's  the  money?" 

"  Arrah!  stop  awhile,  Molly,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about 
it." 

"But  what  is  that  bottle  under  your  waistcoat?"  said 
Molly,  spying  its  neck  sticking  out. 

"Why,  then,  be  easy  now,  can't  you,"  says  Mick,  "ti]! 
I  tell  it  to  you?"  and  putting  the  bottle  on  the  table,  "  That's 
all  I  got  for  the  cow." 

His  poor  wife  was  thunderstruck.  "All  you  got!  and 
what  good  is  that,  Mick?  Oh!  1  never  thought  you  were 
such  a  fool;  and  what'll  we  do  for  the  rent,  and  what " 


LEGEND  OP  BOTTLE  HILL.  39 

"Now,  Molly,"  says  Mick,  "can't  you  hearken  to 
reason?  Didn't  I  tell  you  how  the  old  man,  or  whatsom- 
ever  he  was,  met  me, — no,  he  did  not  meet  me  neither, 
but  he  was  there  with  me — on  the  big  hill,  and  how  he 
made  me  sell  him  the  cow,  and  told  me  the  bottle  was  the 
only  thing  for  me?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  the  only  thing  for  you,  you  fool!"  said 
Molly,  seizing  the  bottle  to  hurl  it  at  her  poor  husband's 
head;  but  Mick  caught  it,  and  quietly  (for  he  minded  the 
old  man's  advice)  loosened  his  wife's  grasp,  and  placed  the 
bottle  again  in  his  bosom.  Poor  Molly  sat  down  crying, 
while  Mick  told  his  story,  with  many  a  crossing  and 
blessing  between  him  and  harm.  His  wife  could  not  help 
believing  him,  particularly  as  she  had  as  much  faith  in 
fairies  as  she  had  in  the  priest,  who  indeed  never  discou- 
raged her  belief  in  the  fairies;  may  be,  he  didn't  know  she 
believed  in  them,  and  may  be,  he  believed  in  them  himself. 
She  got  up,  however,  without  saying  one  word,  and  began 
to  sweep  the  earthen  floor  with  a  bunch  of  heath;  then  she 
tidied  up  every  thing,  and  put  out  the  long  table,  and  spread 
the  clean  cloth,  for  she  had  only  one,  upon  it,  and  Mick, 
placing  the  bottle  on  the  ground,  looked  at  it  and  said, 
"Bottle,  do  your  duty." 

"Look  there!  look  there,  mammy!"  said  his  chubby 
eldest  son,  a  boy  about  live  years  old — "look  there!  look 
there!"  and  he  sprang  to  his  mother's  side,  as  two  tiny 
little  fellows  rose  like  light  from  the  bottle,  and  in  an 
instant  covered  the  table  with  dishes  and  plates  of  gold  and 
silver,  full  of  the  finest  victuals  that  ever  were  seen,  and 
when  all  was  done  went  into  the  bottle  again.  Mick  and 
his  wife  looked  at  every  thing  with  astonishment;  they  had 
never  seen  such  plates  and  dishes  before,  and  didn't  think 
they  could  ever  admire  them  enough ;  the  very  sight  almost 
took  away  their  appetites;  but  at  length  Molly  said,  "Come 
and  sit  down,  Mick,  and  try  and  eat  a  bit:  sure  you  ought 
to  be  hungry  after  such  a  good  day's  work." 

"  Why,  then,  the  man  told  no  lie  about  the  bottle." 

Mick  sat  down,  after  putting  the  children  to  the  table; 
and  they  made  a  hearty  meal,  though  they  couldn't  taste 
half  the  dishes. 

"Now,"  saj^  Molly,  "I  wonder  will  those  two  good  little 


40  LEGEND  OF  BOTTLE  HILL. 

gentlemen  carry  away  these  fine  things  again?"  They 
waited,  but  no  one  came;  so  Molly  put  up  the  dishes  and 
plates  very  carefully,  saying,  "  Why,  then,  Mick,  that  was 
no  lie  sure  enough;  but  you'll  be  a  rich  man  yet,  Mick 
Purcell." 

Mick  and  his  wife  and  children  went  to  their  bed,  not  to 
sleep,  but  to  settle  about  selling  the  fine  things  they  did  not 
want,  and  to  take  more  land.  Mick  went  to  Cork  and  sold 
his  plate,  and  bought  a  horse  and  cart,  and  began  to  show 
that  he  was  making  money;  and  they  did  all  they  could  to 
keep  the  bottle  a  secret;  but  for  all  that,  their  landlord 
found  it  out,  for  he  came  to  Mick  one  day  and  asked  him 
where  he  got  all  his  money — sure  it  was  not  by  the  farm; 
and  he  bothered  him  so  much,  that  at  last  Mick  told  him 
of  the  bottle.  His  landlord  offered  him  a  deal  of  money 
for  it;  but  Mick  would  not  give  it,  till  at  last  he  offered  to 
give  him  all  his  farm  for  ever:  so  Mick,  who  was  very  rich, 
thought  he'd  never  want  any  more  money,  and  gave  him 
the  bottle:  but  Mick  was  mistaken — he  and  his  family 
spent  money  as  if  there  was  no  end  of  it;  and,  to  make  the 
story  short,  they  became  poorer  and  poorer,  till  at  last  they 
had  nothing  left  but  one  cow;  and  Mick  once  more  drove 
his  cow  before  him  to  sell  her  at  Cork  fair,  hoping  to  meet 
the  old  man  and  get  another  bottle.  It  was  hardly  day- 
break when  he  left  home,  and  he  walked  on  at  a  good  pace 
till  he  reached  the  big  hill:  the  mists  were  sleeping  in  the 
valleys  and  curling  like  smoke-wreaths  upon  the  brown 
heath  around  him.  The  sun  rose  on  his  left,  and  just  at 
his  feet  a  lark  sprang  from  its  grassy  couch  and  poured 
forth  its  joyous  matin  song,  ascending  into  the  clear  blue 
sky, 

"Till  its  form  like  a  speck  in  the  airiness  blending 
And  thrilling  with  music,  was  melting  in  light." 

Mick  crossed  himself,  listening  as  he  advanced  to  the 
sweet  song  of  the  lark,  but  thinking,  notwithstanding,  all 
the  time  of  the  little  old  man;  when,  just  as  he  reached  the 
summit  of  the  hill,  and  cast  his  eyes  over  the  extensive 
prospect  before  and  around  him,  he  was  startled  and  re- 
joiced by  the  same  well-known  voice: — "Well,  Mick 
Purcell,  I  told  you,  you  would  be  a  rich  man." 


LEGEND  OF  BOTTLE  HILL.  41 

"Indeed,  then,  sure  enough  I  was,  that's  no  lie  for  you, 
sir.  Good  morning  to  you,  but  it  is  not  rich  1  am  now — 
but  have  you  another  bottle,  for  1  want  it  now  as  much  as 
1  did  long  ago;  so  if  you  have  it,  sir,  here  is  the  cow  for  it." 

"And  here  is  the  bottle,"  said  the  old  man,  smiling; 
"you  know  what  to  do  with  it." 

"  Oh!  then,  sure  I  do,  as  good  right  I  have." 

"Well,  farewell  for  ever,  Mick  Purcell:  I  told  you,  you 
would  be  a  rich  man." 

"  And  good  bye  to  you,  sir,"  said  Mick,  as  he  turned 
back;  "and  good  luck  to  you,  and  good  luck  to  the  big 
hill — it  wants  a  name — Bottle  Hill. — Good  bye,  sir,  good 
bye;"  so  Mick  walked  back  as  fast  as  he  could,  never  look- 
ing after  the  white-faced  little  gentleman  and  the  cow,  so 
anxious  was  he  to  bring  home  the  bottle.  Well,  he  arrived 
with  it  safely  enough,  and  called  out,  as  soon  as  he  saw 
Molly, — "Oh!  sure,  I've  another  bottle!" 

"  Arrah  !  then  have  you?  why,  then,  you're  a  lucky  man, 
Mick  Purcell,  that's  what  you  are." 

In  an  instant  she  put  every  thing  right;  and  Mick, 
looking  at  his  bottle,  exultingly  cried  out,  "  Bottle,  do  your 
duty."  In  a  twinkling,  two  great  stout  men  with  big 
cudgels  issued  from  the  bottle  (I  do  not  know  how  they 
got  room  in  it),  and  belaboured  poor  Mick  and  his  wife 
and  all  his  family,  till  they  lay  on  the  floor,  when  in  they 
went  again.  Mick,  as  soon  as  he  recovered,  got  up  and 
looked  about  him;  he  thought  and  thought,  and  at  last  he 
took  up  his  wife  and  his  children;  and,  leaving  them  to 
recover  as  w^ell  as  they  could,  he  took  the  bottle  under  his 
coat,  and  went  to  his  landlord,  who  had  a  great  company: 
he  got  a  servant  to  tell  him  he  wanted  to  speak  to  him, 
and  at  last  he  came  out  to  Mick. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  now?" 

"  Nothing,  sir,  only  I  have  another  bottle." 

"Oh!  ho!  is  it  as  good  as  the  first?" 

"Yes,  sir,  and  better;  if  you  like,  I  will  show  it  to  you 
before  all  the  ladies  and  gentlemen." 

"  Come  along,  then."  So  saying,  Mick  was  brought 
into  the  great  hall,  where  he  saw  his  old  bottle  standing 
high  up  on  a  shelf:  "Ah!  ha!"  says  he  to  himself,  "may 
be  I  won't  have  you  by  and  by." 

4* 


42  LEGEND  OP  BOTTLE  HILL.    * 

"Now,"  says  his  landlord,  "show  us  your  bottle." 
Mick  set  it  on  the  floor,  and  uttered  the  words;  in  a  mo- 
ment the  landlord  was  tumbled  on  the  floor;  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  servants  and  all,  were  running  and  roaring,  and 
sprawling,  and  kicking  and  shrieking.  Wine  cups  and 
salvers  were  knocked  about  in  every  direction,  until  the 
landlord  called  out,  "Stop  those  two  devils,  Mick  Purcell, 
or  I'll  have  you  hanged!" 

"They  never  shall  stop,"  said  Mick, "till  I  get  my  own 
bottle  that  I  see  up  there  at  top  of  that  shelf." 

"Give  it  down  to  him,  give  it  down  to  him,  before  we 
are  all  killed!"  says  the  landlord. 

Mick  put  the  bottle  in  his  bosom;  in  jumped  the 
two  men  into  the  new  bottle,  and  he  carried  the  bottles 
home.  1  need  not  lengthen  my  story  by  telling  how  he 
got  richer  than  ever,  how  his  son  married  his  landlord's 
only  daughter,  how  he  and  his  wife  died  when  they  were 
very  old,  and  how  some  of  the  servants,  fighting  at  their 
wake,  broke  the  bottles;  but  still  the  hill  has  the  name 
upon  it;  ay,  and  so  'twill  be  always  Bottle  Hill  to  the  end 
of  the  world,  and  so  it  ought,  for  it  is  a  strange  story,   i 


mm^:. 


43 


THE 


CONFESSIONS  OF  TOM  BOURKE. 

VII. 

Tom  Bourke  lives  in  a  low  long  farm-house,  resembling 
in  outward  appearance  a  large  barn,  placed  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hill,  just  where  the  new  road  strikes  off  from  the  old 
one,  leading  from  the  town  of  Kilworth  to  that  of  Lismore. 
He  is  of  a  class  of  persons  who  are  a  sort  of  black  swans 
in  Ireland ;  he  is  a  wealthy  farmer.     Tom's  father  had,  in 
the  good  old  times,  when  a  hundred  pounds  were  no  in- 
considerable treasure,  either  to  lend  or  spend,  accommo- 
dated his  landlord  with  that  sum  at  interest;  and  obtained, 
as  a  return  for  the  civility,  a  long  lease,  about  half-a-dozen 
times  more  valuable  than  the  loan  which  procured  it.     The 
old  man  died  worth  several  hundred  pounds,  the  greater 
part  of  which,  with  his  farm,  he  bequeathed  to  his  son 
Tom.     But,  besides  all  this,  Tom  received  from  his  fa- 
ther, upon  his  death-bed,  another  gift,  far  more  valuable 
than   worldly  riches,   greatly   as    he   prized,  and   is   still 
known  to  prize  them.     He  was  invested  with  the  privi- 
lege, enjoyed  by  few  of  the  sons  of  men,  of  communicating 
with  those  mysterious  beings  called  "  the  good  people.'' 

Tom  Bourke  is  a  little,  stout,  healthy,  active  man,  about 
fifty-five  years  of  age.  His  hair  is  perfectly  white,  short 
and  bushy  behind,  but  rising  in  front  erect  and  thick  above 
his  forehead,  like  a  new  clothes-brush.  His  eyes  are  of 
that  kind  which  I  have  often  observed  with  persons  of  a 
quick  but  limited  intellect — they  are  small,  gray,  and 
lively.  The  large  and  projecting  eye-brows  under,  or 
rather  within,  which  thejfcwinkle,  give  them  an  expression 
of  shrewdness  and  inteffljence,  if  not  of  cunning.  And 
this  is  very  much  the  character  of  the  man.  If  you  want 
to  make  a  bargain  with  Tom  Bourke,  you  must  act  as  if 
you  were  a  general  besieging  a  town,  and  make  your  ad- 


..;-'^v3fe5^ 


^^  CONFESSIONS  OF  TOM  BOURKE. 

vahces  a  long  time  before  j^ou  can  hope  to  obtain  possession; 
if  you  march  up  boldly,  and  tell  him  at  once  your  object, 
you  "are  for  the  most  part  sure  to  have  the  gates  closed  in 
your  teeth.  Tom  does  not  wish  to  part  with  what  you 
wish  to  obtain,  or  another  person  has  been  speaking  to  him 
for  the  vvhole  of  the  last  week.  Or,  it  may  be,  your  pro- 
posal seems  to  meet  the  most  favourable  reception.  "  Very 
well,  sir;"  "That's  true,  sir;"  "  I'm  very  thankful  to  your 
honour,"  and  other  expressions  of  kindness  and  confidence, 
greet  you  in  reply  to  every  sentence;  and  you  part  from 
him  wondering  how  he  can  have  obtained  the  character 
which  he  universally  bears,  of  being  a  man  whom  no  one 
can  make  any  thing  of  in  a  bargain.  But  when  you  next 
meet  him,  the  flattering  illusion  is  dissolved:  you  find  you 
are  a  great  deal  farther  from  your  object  than  you  were 
when  you  thought  you  had  almost  succee^d:  his  eye  and 
his  tongue  express  a  total  forge tfulne^^s  of  what  the  mind 
within  never  lost  sight  of  for  an  instant;  and  you  have  to 
begin  operations  afresh,  with  the  disadvantage  of  having 
put  your  adversary  completely  upon  his  guard. 

Yet,  although  Tom  Bourke  is,  whether  from  supernatural 
revealings,  or  (as  many  will  think  more  probable)  from  the 
tell-truth,  experience,  so  distrustful  of  mankind,  and  so 
close  in  his  dealings  with  them,  he  is  no  misanthrope. 
No  man  loves  better  the  pleasures  of  the  genial  board. 
The  love  of  money,  indeed,  which  is  with  him  (and  who 
will  blame  him?)  a  very  ruling  propensity,  and  the  gratifi- 
cation which  it  has  received  from  habits  of  industry,  sus- 
tained throughout  a  pretty  long  and  successful  life,  have 
taught  him  the  value  of  sobriety,  during  those  seasons,  at 
least,  when  a  man's  business  requires  him  to  keep  possession 
of  his  senses.  He  has  therefore  a  general  rule,  never  to 
get  drunk  but  on  Sundays.  But,  in  order  that  it  should 
be  a  general  one  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  he  takes  a 
method  which,  according  to  better  logicians  than  he  is, 
always  proves  the  rule.  He  has  many  exceptions:  among 
these,  of  course,  are  the  evening^fcall  the  fair  and  market 
days  that  happen  in  his  neighbou^rood;  so  also  all  the  days 
on  which  funerals,  marriages,  and  christenings,  take  place 
among  his  friends  within  many  miles  of  him.  As  to  this 
last  class  of  exceptions,  it  may  appear  at  first  very  singular, 


CONFESSIONS  OF  TOM  BOURKE.  45 

that  he  is  much  more  punctual  in  his  attendance  at  the 
funerals  than  at  the  baptisms  or  weddings  of  his  friends. 
This  may  be  construed  as  an  instance  of  disinterested  af- 
fection for  departed  worth,  very  uncommon  in  this  selfish 
world.  But  I  am  afraid  that  the  motives  which  lead  Tom 
Bourke  to  pay  more  court  to  the  dead  than  the  living  are 
precisely  those  which  lead  to  the  opposite  conduct  in  the 
generality  of  mankind — a  hope  of  future  benefit  and  a  fear 
of  future  evil.  For  the  good  people,  who  are  a  race  as 
powerful  as  they  are  capricious,  have  their  favourites 
among  those  who  inhabit  the  world;  often  show  their 
affection,  by  easing  the  objects  of  it  from  the  load  of  this 
burdensome  life;  and  frequently  reward  or  punish  the 
living,  according  to  the  degree  of  reverence  paid  to  the 
obsequies  and  the  memory  of  the  elected  dead. 

It  is  not  easy  to  prevail  on  Tom  to  speak  of  those  good 
people,  with  whom  he  is  said  to  hold  frequent  and  intimate 
communications.  To  the  faithful,  who  believe  in  their 
power,  and  their  occasional  delegation  of  it  to  him,  he 
seldom  refuses,  if  properly  asked,  to  exercise  his  high  pre- 
rogative, when  any  unfortunate  being  is  struck^  in  his 
neighbourhood.  Still,  he  will  not  be  won  unsued:  he  is  at 
first  difficult  of  persuasion,  and  must  be  overcome  by  a 
little  gentle  violence.  On  these  occasions  he  is  unusually 
solemn  and  mysterious,  and  if  one  word  of  reward  be  men- 
tioned, he  at  once  abandons  the  unhappy  patient,  such  a 
proposition  being  a  direct  insult  to  his  supernatural  supe- 
riors. It  is  true,  that  as  the  labourer  is  worthy  of  his  hire, 
most  persons,  gifted  as  he  is,  do  not  scruple  to  receive  a 
token  of  gratitude  from  the  patients  or  their  friends,  after 
their  recovery. 

*  The  term  "  fairy  struck"  is  applied  to  paralytic  affections,  which 
are  supposed  to  proceed  from  a  blow  given  by  the  invisible  hand  of 
an  offended  fairy;  this  belief,  of  course,  creates  fairy  doctors,  who 
by  means  of  charms  and  mysterious  journeys  profess  to  cure  the 
afflicted.  It  is  only  fair  to  add,  that  the  term  has  also  a  convivial 
acceptation,  the  fairies  beijjuiot  unfrequently  made  to  bear  the  blame 
of  the  effects  arising  fromSpb  copious  a  sacrifice  to  Bacchus. 

The  importance  attache^o  the  manner  and  place  of  burial  by  the 
peasantry  is  almost  incredible;  it  is  always  a  matter  of  consideration 
and  often  of  dispute  whether  the  deceased  shall  be  buried  with  his  or 
her  *'  own  people." 


:^||^ 


46  CONFESSIONS  OP  TOM  BOURKE. 

To  do  Tom  Bourke  justice,  he  is  on  these  occasions,  as 
1  have  heard  from  many  competent  authorities,  perfectly- 
disinterested.  Not  many  months  since,  he  recovered  a 
young  woman  (the  sister  of  a  tradesman  living  near  him,) 
who  had  been  struck  speechless  after  returning  from  a  fu- 
neral, and  had  continued  so  for  several  days.  He  steadfastly- 
refused  receiving  any  compensation;  saj^ing,  that  even  if 
he  had  not  as  much  as  would  buy  him  his  supper,  he  could 
take  nothing  in  this  case,  because  the  girl  had  offended  at 
the  funeral  one  of  the  good  people  belonging  to  his  own  fa- 
mily, and  though  he  would  do  her  a  kindness,  he  could 
take  none  from  her. 

About  the  time  this  last  remarkable  affair  took  place,  my 
friend  Mr.  Martin,  who  is  a  neighbour  of  Tom's,  had  some 
business  to  transact  with  him,  which  it  was  exceedingly 
difficult  to  bring  to  a  conclusion.  At  last  Mr.  Martin, 
having  tried  all  quiet  means,  had  recourse  to  a  legal  process, 
which  brought  Tom  to  reason,  and  the  matter  was  arranged 
to  their  mutual  satisfaction,  and  with  perfect  good-humour 
between  the  parties.  The  accommodation  took  place  after 
dinner  at  Mr.  Martin's  house,  and  he  invited  Tom  to  walk 
into  the  parlour  and  take  a  glass  of  punch,  made  of  some 
excellent  potteen,  which  was  on  the  table:  he  had  long 
wished  to  draw  out  his  highly  endowed  neighbour  on  the 
subject  of  his  supernatural  powers,  and  as  Mrs.  Martin, 
who  was  in  the  room,  was  rather  a  favourite  of  Tom's,  this 
seemed  a  good  opportunity. 

*'Well,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Martin,  "that  was  a  curious 
business  of  Molly  Dwyer's,  who  recovered  her  speech  so 
suddenly  the  other  day." 

"You  may  say  that,  sir,"  replied  Tom  Bourke;  ^'but  I 
had  to  travel  far  for  it:  no  matter  for  that,  now.  Your 
health,  ma'am,"  said  he,  turning  to  Mrs.  Martin. 

"Thank  you,  Tom.  But  I  am  told  you  had  some  trou- 
ble once  in  that  way  in  your  own  family,"  said  Mrs. 
Martin. 

"So  I  had,  ma'am;  trouble  enoAh;  but  you  were  only 
a  child  at  that  time."  ^^ 

"  Come,  Tom,"  said  the  hospitable  Mr.  Martin,  inter- 
rupting him,  "take  another  tumbler;'^  and  he  then  added, 
*<I  wish  you  would  tell  us  something  of  the  manner  m 


CONFESSIONS  OF  TOM  BOURKE.  47 

which  SO  many  of  your  children  died.  I  am  told  they 
dropped  oflf,  one  after  another,  by  the  same  disorder,  and 
that  your  eldest  son  was  cured  in  a  most  extraordinary 
way,  when  the  physicians  had  given  over.'^ 

"'Tis  true  for  you,  sir,"  returned  Tom;  "your  father, 
the  doctor  (God  be  good  to  him,  I  won't  belie  him  in  his 
grave)  told  me,  when  my  fourth  little  boy  was  a  week 
sick,  that  himself  and  Doctor  Barry  did  all  that  man  could 
do  for  him;  but  they  could  not  keep  him  from  going  after 
the  rest.  No  more  they  could,  if  the  people  that  took 
away  the  rest  wished  to  take  him  too.  But  they  left  him; 
and  sorry  to  the  heart  1  am  1  did  not  know  before  why 
they  were  taking  my  boys  from  me;  if  I  did,  I  would  not 
be  left  trusting  to  two  of  'em  now." 

"And  how  did  you  find  it  out,  Tom?"  inquired  Mr. 
Martin. 

"Why,  then,  Pll  tell  you,  sir,"  said  Bourke:  "When 
your  father  said  what  I  told  you,  I  did  not  know  very  well 
what  to  do.  I  walked  down  the  little  bohereen,  you  know, 
sir,  that  goes  to  the  river-side  near  Dick  Heafy's  ground; 
for  'twas  a  lonesome  place,  and  I  wanted  to  think  crf  my- 
self. I  was  heavy,  sir,  and  my  heart  got  weak  in  me, 
when  1  thought  I  was  to  lose  my  little  boy;  and  I  did  not 
know  well  how  to  face  his  mother  with  the  news,  for  she 
doted  down  upon  him.  Beside,  she  never  got  the  better 
of  all  she  cried  at  her  brother's  berrin  (burying)  the  week 
before.  As  I  was  going  down  the  bohereen,  1  met  an  old 
bocough,*  that  used  to  come  about  the  place  once  or  twice 
a  year,  and  used  alvvays  to  sleep  in  our  barn  while  he  staid 
m  the  neighbourhood.  So  he  asked  me  how  I  was.  *Bad 
enough,  Shamous  (James),'  says  I.  ^  I'm  sorry  for  your 
trouble,'  says  he;  ^but  you're  a  foolish  man,  Mr.  Bourke. 
Your  son  would  be  well  enough  if  you  would  only  do  what 
you  ought  with  him.'  <  What  more  can  I  do  with  him, 
Shamous?'  says  I:  Hhe  doctors  give  him  over.'  « The 
doctors  know  no  more  what  ails  him  than  they  do  what 
ails  a  cow  when  she  sto^  her  milk,'  says  Shamous:  *  but 
go  to  such  a  one,'  says  Pre,  telling  me  his  name,  '  and  try 
what  he'll  say  to  you.' " 

*  A  peculiar  class  of  beggars  resembling  the  Gaberlunzie  man  of 
Scotland. 


m 


45  CONFESSIONS  OF  TOM  BOURKE. 

<<And  who  was  that,  Tom?"  asked  Mr.  Martin. 

"  I  could  not  tell  you  that,  sir,"  said  Bourke,  with  a 
mysterious  look:  "  howsoever,  you  often  saw  him,  and  he 
does  not  live  far  from  this.  But  I  had  a  trial  of  him  be- 
fore; and  if  1  went  to  him  at  first,  may  be  I'd  have  now 
some  of  them  that's  gone,  and  so  Shamous  often  told  me. 
Well,  sir,  I  went  to  this  man,  and  he  came  with  me  to  the 
house.  By  course,  I  did  every  thing  as  he  bid  me.  Ac- 
cording to  his  order,  I  took  the  little  boy  out  of  the  dwell- 
ing-house immediately,  sick  as  he  was,  and  made  a  bed 
for  him  and  myself  in  the  cow-house.  Well,  sir,  1  lay 
down  by  his  side,  in  the  bed,  between  two  of  the  cows,  and 
he  fell  asleep.  He  got  into  a  perspiration,  saving  your  pre- 
sence, as  if  he  was  drawn  through  the  river,  and  breathed 
hard,  with  a  great  impression  (oppression)  on  his  chest,  and 
was  very  bad — very  bad  entirely  through  the  night.  I 
thought  about  twelve  o'clock  he  was  going  at  last,  and  I 
was  just  getting  up  to  go  call  the  man  I  told  you  of;  but 
there  was  no  occasion.  My  friends  were  getting  the  better 
oftheri  >:d  to  take  him  away  from  me.     There 

was  fi(, '  wUe  cow-house  but  the  child  and  myself. 

Tbe'.e  .  uS  uniy  one  half-penny  candle  lighting,  and  that 
•^vas  stuck  in  the  wall  at  the  far  end  of  the  house.  I  had 
just  enough  of  light  where  we  were  laying  to  see  a  person 
walking  or  standing  near  us:  and  there  was  no  more  noise 
than  if  it  was  a  churchyard,  except  the  cows  chewing  the 
fodder  in  the  stalls.  Just  as  I  was  thinking  of  getting  up, 
as  I  told  you — I  wont  belie  my  father,  sir — he  was  a  good 
father  to  me — I  saw  him  standing  at  the  bed-side,  holding 
out  his  right  hand  to  me,  and  leaning  his  other  hand  on 
the  stick  he  used  to  carry  when  he  was  alive,  and  looking 
pleasant  and  smiling  at  me,  all  as  if  he  was  telling  me  not 
to  be  afeard,  for  I  would  not  lose  the  child.  '  Is  that  you, 
father?'  says  I.  He  said  nothing.  ^  If  that's  you,'  says  I 
again,  *  for  the  love  of  them  that's  gone,  let  me  catch  your 
hand.'  And  so  he  did,  sir;  and  his  hand  was  as  soft  as  a 
child's.  He  stayed  about  as  long  as  you'd  be  going  from 
this  to  the  gate  below  at  the  end  Of  the  avenue,  and  then 
went  away.  In  less  than  a  week  the  child  was  as  well  as  if 
nothing  ever  ailed  him;  and  there  isn't  to-night  a  healthier 
boy  of  nineteen,  from  this  blessed  house  to  the  town  of 
Ballyporeen,  across  the  Kilworth  mountains." 


CONFESSIONS  OF  TOM  BOURKE,  49' 

«  But  I  think,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Martin,  "  it  appears  as  if 
you  are  more  indebted  to  your  father  than  to  the  man  re- 
commended to  you  by  Shamous;  or  do  you  suppose  it  was 
he  who  made  favour  with  your  enemies  among  the  good 
people,  and  that  then  your  father " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Bourke,  interrupting  him; 
"  but  don't  call  them  my  enemies.  ^Twould  not  be  wishing 
to  me  for  a  good  deal  to  sit  by  when  they  are  called  so. 
No  offence  to  you,  sir. — Here's  wishing  you  a  good  health 
and  long  life." 

"I  assure  you,"  returned  Mr.  Martin,  "I  meant  no  of- 
fence, Tom;  but  was  it  not  as  I  say?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you  that,  sir,"  said  Bourke;  "I'm  bound 
down,  sir.  Howsoever,  you  may  be  sure  the  man  1  spoke 
of,  and  my  father,  and  those  they  know,  settled  it  between 
them." 

There  was  a  pause,  of  which  Mrs.  Martin  took  advan- 
tage to  inquire  of  Tom,  whether  something  remarkable 
had  not  happened  about  a  goat  and  a  pair  of  pigeons,  at  the 
time  of  his  son's  illness — circumstances  often  mysteriously 
hinted  at  by  Tom. 

"See  that  now,"  said  he,  returning  to  Mr.  Martin,  "how 
well  she  remembers  it!  True  for  you,  ma'am.  The  goat 
I  gave  the  mistress  your  mother,  when  the  doctors  ordered 
her  goats'  whey." 

Mrs.  Martin  nodded  assent,  and  Tom  Bourke  continued — 
"  Why,  then,  I'll  tell  you  how  that  was.  The  goat  was  as 
well  as  e'er  a  goat  ever  was,  for  a  month  after  she  was  sent  to 
Killaan  to  your  father's.  The  morning  after  the  night  I  just 
told  you  of,  before  the  child  woke,  his  mother  was  standing 
at  the  gap  leading  out  of  the  barn-yard  into  the  road,  and 
she  saw  two  pigeons  flying  from  the  town  of  Kilworth,  off 
the  church,  down  towards  her.  Well,  they  never  stopped, 
you  see,  till  they  came  to  the  house  on  the  hill  at  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  facing  our  farm.  They  pitched  upon  the 
chimney  of  that  house,  and  after  looking  about  them  for  a 
minute  or  two,  they  flew  straight  across  the  river,  and 
stopped  on  the  ridge  of  the  cow-house  where  the  child  and 
I  were  lying.  Do  you  think  they  came  there  for  nothing, 
sir?" 

"  Certainly  not,  Tom,"  returned  Mr.  Martin. 
5 


A 


50  CONFESSIONS  OF  TOM  BOURKE. 

"Well,  the  woman  came  in  to  me,  frightened,  and  told 
me.  She  began  to  cry. — '  Whisht,  you  fool!'  says  I:  ^  'tis 
all  for  the  better.'  'Twas  true  for  me.  What  do  you 
think,  ma'am;  the  goat  that  I  gave  your  mother,  that  was 
seen  feeding  at  sunrise  that  morning  by  Jack  Cronin,  as 
merry  as  a  bee,  dropped  down  dead,  without  any  body- 
knowing  why,  before  Jack's  face;  and  at  that  very  moment 
he  saw  two  pigeons  fly  from  the  top  of  the  house  out  of  the 
town,  towards  the  Lismore  road.  ^Twas  at  the  same  time 
my  woman  saw  them,  as  I  just  told  you." 

"  'Twas  very  strange,  indeed,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Martin; 
"  I  wish  you  could  give  us  some  explanation  of  it." 

"  I  wish  I  could,  sir,"  was  Tom  Bourke's  answer;  "but 
I'm  bound  down.  I  can't  tell  but  what  I'm  allowed  to 
tell,  any  more  than  a  sentry  is  let  walk  more  than  his 
rounds." 

"  I  think  you  said  something  of  having  had  some  former 
knowledge  of  the  man  that  assisted  in  the  cure  of  your 
son,"  said  Mr.  Martin. 

"  So  I  had,  sir,"  returned  Bourke.  "I  had  a  trial  of 
that  man.  But  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  I  can't  tell 
you  any  thing  about  that,  sir.  But  would  you  like  to  know 
how  he  got  his  skill?" 

"  Oh!  very  much  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Martin. 

"  But  you  can  tell  us  his  Christian  name,  that  we  may 
know  him  the  better  through  the  story,"  added  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin. Tom  Bourke  paused  for  a  minute  to  consider  this 
proposition. 

<'  Well,  1  believe  I  may  tell  you  that,  any  how;  his  name 
is  Patrick.  He  was  always  a  smart,  active,  'cute  boy,  and 
would  be  a  great  clerk  if  he  stuck  to  it.  The  first  time  I 
knew  him,  sir,  was  at  my  mother's  wake.  I  was  in  great 
trouble,  for  1  did  not  know  where  to  bury  her.  Her  peo- 
ple and  my  father's  people — I  mean  their  friends,  sir,  among 
the  good  people,  had  the  greatest  battle  that  was  known  for 
many  a  year,  at  Dunmanwaycross,  to  see  to  whose  church- 
yard she'd  be  taken.  They  fought  for  three  nights,  one 
after  another,  without  being  able  to  settle  it.  The  neigh- 
bours wondered  how  long  I  was  before  I  buried  my  mo- 
ther; but  I  had  my  reasons,  though  I  could  not  tell  them  at 
that  time.  Well,  sir,  to  make  my  story  short,  Patrick 
came  on  the  fourth  morning  and  told  me  he  settled  the 


li.^ 


CONFESSIONS  OF  TOM  BOUBKE.  51 

business,  and  that  day  we  buried  her  in  Kilcrumper  church- 
yard with  my  father's  people," 

"He  was  a  valuable  friend,  Tom,"  said  Mrs.  Martin, 
with  difficulty  suppressing  a  smile.  "But  you  were  about 
to  tell  how  he  became  so  skilful." 

"Sol  will,  and  welcome,"  replied  Bourke.  "Your 
health,  ma'am.  I  am  drinking  too  much  of  this  punch,  sir; 
but  to  tell  the  truth, I  never  tasted  thelikeof  it:  itgoesdown 
one's  throat  like  sweet  oil.  But  what  w^as  1  going  to  say? — 
Yes — well — Patrick,  many  a  long  year  ago,  was  coming 
home  from  a  berrin  late  in  the  evening, and  walking  b}^  the 
side  of  the  river  opposite  the  big  inch,*  near  Ballyhefaan 
ford.f  He  had  taken  a  drop,  to  be  sure;  but  he  was  only  a  lit- 
tle merry,  as  you  may  say,  and  knew  very  well  what  he  was 
doing.  The  moon  was  shining,  for  it  was  in  the  month  of 
August,  and  the  river  was  as  smooth  and  as  bright  as  a 
looking-glass.  He  heard  nothing  for  a  long  time  but  the 
fall  of  the  water  at  the  mill  wier  about  a  mile  down  the  ri- 
ver, and  now  and  then  the  crying  of  the  lambs  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river.  All  at  once,  there  was  a  noise  of  a  great 
number  of  people,  laughing  as  if  they'd  break  their  hearts, 
and  of  a  piper  playing  among  them.  It  came  from  the  inch 
at  the  other  side  of  the  ford,  and  he  saw,  through  the  mist 
that  hung  over  the  river,  a  whole  crowd  of  people  dancing 
on  the  inch.  Patrick  was  as  fond  of  a  dance  as  he  was  of 
a  glass,  and  that's  saying  enough  for  him;  so  he  whipped^ 
ofi'his  shoes  and  stockings,  and  away  with  him  across  the 
ford.  After  putting  on  his  shoes  and  stockings  at  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  he  walked  over  to  the  crowd,  and  mixed 
with  them  for  some  time  without  being  minded.  He 
thought,  sir,  that  he*d  show  them  better  dancing  than  any 
of  themselves,  for  he  was  proud  of  his  feet,  sir,  and  good 
right  he  had,  for  there  was  not  a  boy  in  the  same  parish 
could  foot  a  double  or  treble  with  him.  But  pwah! — his 
dancing  was  no  more  to  theirs  than  mine  would  be  to  the 
mistress  there.  They  did  not  seem  as  if  they  had  a  bone 
in  their  bodies,  and  they  kept  it  up  as  if  nothing  could  tire 

*  Inch — low  meadow  ground  near  a  river. 

t  A  ford  of  the  river  Puncheon  (the  Fanchin  of  Spenser,)  on  the 
road  leading  from  Fermoy  to  Araglin. 

X  i.  e.  "  In  the  time  of  a  crack  of  a  whip,"  he  took  off  his  shoes 
and  stockino-s. 


t 


52  CONFESSIONS  OF  TOM  BOURKE. 

them.  Patrick  was  'shamed  witliin  himself,  for  he  thought 
he  had  not  his  fellow  in  all  the  country  round;  and  was  • 
going  away  when  a  little  old  man,  that  was  looking  at  the 
company  for  some  time  bitterly  as  if  he  did  not  like  what 
was  going  on,  came  up  to  him.  *  Patrick,'  says  he.  Pa- 
trick started,  for  he  did  not  think  any  body  there  knew 
him.  '  Patrick,'  says  he,  ^  you're  discouraged,  and  no 
wonder  for  you.  But  you  have  a  friend  near  you.  Pm 
your  friend,  and  your  father's  friend,  and  I  think  worse 
(more)  of  your  little  finger  than  I  do  of  all  that  are  here, 
though  they  think  no  one  is  as  good  as  themselves.  Go 
into  the  ring  and  call  for  a  lilt.  Don't  be  afeard.  1  tell 
you  the  best  of  them  did  not  do  as  well  as  you  shall,  if 
you  will  do  as  I  bid  you.'  Patrick  felt  something  within 
him  as  if  he  ought  not  to  gainsay  the  old  man.  He  went 
into  the  ring,  and  called  the  piper  to  play  up  the  best  dou- 
ble he  had.  And,  sure  enough,  all  that  the  others  were 
able  for  was  nothing  to  him!  He  bounded  like  an  eel, 
now  here  and  now  there,  as  light  as  a  feather^  although  the 
people  could  hear  the  music  answered  by  his  steps,  that  beat 
time  to  every  turn  of  it,  like  the  left  foot  of  the  piper.  He 
first  danced  a  hornpipe  on  the  ground.  Then  they  got  a 
table,  and  he  danced  a  treble  on  it  that  drew  down  shouts 
from  the  whole  company.  At  last  he  called  for  a  trencher  ; 
and  when  they  saw  him,  all  as  if  he  was  spinning  on  it  like 
a  top,  they  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  him.  Some 
praised  him  for  the  best  dancer  that  ever  entered  a  ring; 
others  hated  him  because  he  was  better  than  themselves; 
although  they  had  good  right  to  think  themselves  better 
than  him  or  any  other  man  that  never  went  the  long  jour- 
ney." 

«  And  what  was  the  cause  of  his  great  success?"  inquired 
Mr.  Martin. 

"  He  could  not  help  it,  sir,"  replied  Tom  Bourke. 
"  They  that  could  make  him  do  more  than  that  made  him 
do  it.  Howsomever,  when  he  had  done,  they  wanted  him 
to  dance  again,  but  he  was  tired,  and  they  could  not  per- 
suade him.  At  last  he  got  angry,  and  swore  a  big  oath, 
saving  your  presence,  that  he  would  not  dance  a  step  more; 
and  the  word  was  hardly  out  of  his  mouth,  when  he  found 
himself  ail  alone,  with  nothing  but  a  white  cow  grazing  by 
his  side." 


■jll^ 


CONFESSIONS  OF  TOM  BOURKE.  53 

'^Did  he  ever  discover  why  he  was  gifted  with  these  ex- 
traordinary powers  in  the  dance,  Tom?"  said  Mr.  Mar- 
tin. 

"I'll  tell  you  that  too,  sir,"  answered  Bourke,  ^'  when  I 
come  to  it.  When  he  went  home,  sir,  he  was  taken  with 
a  shivering,  and  went  to  bed;  and  the  next  day  they  found 
he  got  the  fever,  or  something  like  it,  for  he  raved  like  as 
if  he  was  mad.  But  they  couldn't  make  out  what  it  was 
he  was  saying,  though  he  talked  constant.  The  doctors 
gave  him  over.  But  it's  little  they  know  what  ailed  him. 
When  he  was,  as  you  may  say,  about  ten  days  sick,  and 
every  body  thought  he  was  going,  one  of  the  neighbours 
came  in  to  him  with  a  man,  a  friend  of  his,  from  Ballin- 
lacken,  that  was  keeping  with  him  some  time  before.  I 
can't  tell  you  his  name  either,  only  it  was  Darby.  The 
minute  Darby  saw  Patrick,  he  took  a  little  bottle,  with  the 
juice  of  herbs  in  it,  out  of  his  pocket,  and  gave  Patrick  a 
drink  of  it.  He  did  the  same  every  day  for  three  weeks, 
and  then  Patrick  was  able  to  walk  about,  as  stout  and  as 
hearty  as  ever  he  was  in  his  life.  But  he  was  a  long  time 
before  he  came  to  himself;  and  he  used  to  walk  the  whole 
day  sometimes  by  the  ditch  side,  talking  to  himself,  like 
as  if  there  was  some  one  along  with  him.  And  so  there 
was  surely,  or  he  wouldn't  be  the  man  he  is  to-day. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  from  some  such  companion  he  learned 
his  skill,"  said  Mr.  Martin. 

"You  have  it  all  now,  sir,"  replied  Bourke.  "Darby 
told  him  his  friends  were  satisfied  with  what  he  did  the  night 
of  the  dance;  and  though  they  couldn't  hinder  the  fever, 
they'd  bring  him  over  it,  and  teach  him  more  than  many 
knew  beside  him.  And  so  they  did.  For  you  see  all  the 
people  he  met  on  the  inch  that  night  were  friends  of  a  dif- 
ferent faction;  only  the  old  man  that  spoke  to  him;  he  was 
a  friend  of  Patrick's  family,  and  it  went  again'  his  heart, 
you  see,  that  the  others  were  so  light,  and  active,  and  he 
was  bitter  in  himself  to  hear  'em  boasting  how  they'd 
dance  with  any  set  in  the  whole  country  round.  So  he 
gave  Patrick  the  gift  that  night,  and  afterwards  gave  him 
the  skill  that  makes  him  the  wonder  of  all  that  know  him. 
And  to  be  sure  it  was  only  learning  he  was  that  time  when 
he  was  wandering  in  his  mind  after  the  fever,"' 

5' 


54  CONFESSIONS  OF  TOM  BOURKE. 

"  I  have  heard  many  strange  stories  about  that  inch  near 
Bally hefaan  ford/'  said  Mr.  Martin.  "  'Tis  a  great  place 
for  the  good  people,  isn't  it,  Tom?" 

"  You  may  say  that,  sir,"  returned  Bourke.  "  1  could 
tell  you  a  great  deal  about  it.  Many  a  time  I  sat  for  as 
good  as  two  hours  by  moonlight,  at  th'  other  side  of 
the  river,  looking  at  'em  playing  goal  as  if  they'd  break 
their  hearts  over  it;  with  their  coats  and  waistcoats  off,  and 
v^^hite  handkerchiefs  on  the  heads  of  one  party,  and  red 
ones  on  th'  other,  just  as  you'd  see  on  a  Sunday  in  Mr.  Sim- 
ming's  big  field.  I  saw  'em  one  night  play  till  the  moon 
set,  without  one  party  being  able  to  take  the  ball  from  th' 
other.  I'm  sure  they  were  going  to  fight,  only,  'twas  near 
morning.  I'm  told  your  grandfather,  ma'am,  used  to  see 
'em,  there,  too,"  said  Bourke,  turning  to  Mrs.  Martin. 

"  So  I  have  been  told,  Tom,"  replied  Mrs.  Martin. 
"But  don't  they  say  that  the  churchyard  of  Kilcrumper* 
is  just  as  favourite  a  place  with  the  good  people  as  Bally- 
hefaan  inch." 

"  Why,  then,  may  be,  you  never  heard,  ma'am,  what 
happened  to  Davy  Roche  in  that  same  churchyard,"  said 
Bourke;  and  turning  to  Mr.  Martin,  added,  "  'twas  a  long 
time  before  he  went  into  your  service,  sir.  He  was  walk- 
ing home  of  an  evening,  from  the  fair  of  Kilcummer,  a  lit- 
tle merry,  to  be  sure,  after  the  day,  and  he  came  up  with 
a  berrin.  So  he  walked  along  with  it,  and  thought  it  very 
queer,  that  he  did  not  know  a  mother's  soul  in  the  crowd, 
but  one  man,  and  he  was  sure  that  man  was  dead  many 
years  afore.  Howsomever,  he  went  on  with  the  berrin, 
till  they  came  to  Kilcrumper  churchyard;  and  then  he 
went  in  and  staid  with  the  rest,  to  see  the  corpse  buried. 
As  soon  as  the  grave  was  covered,  what  should  they  do  but 
gather  about  a  piper,  that  come  along  with  ''em,  and  fall  to 
dancing  as  if  it  was  a  wedding.  Uavy  longed  to  be  among 
'em  (for  he  hadn't  a  bad  foot  of  his  own, that  time,  whatever 
he  ma}^  now;)  but  he  was  loath  to  begin,  because  they  all 
seemed  strange  to  him,  only  the  man  I  told  you  that  he 
thought  was  dead.  Well,  at  last  this  man  saw  what  Davy 
wanted,  and  came  up  to  him.    ^  Davy,'  says  he,  Uake  out  a 

*  About  two  hundred  yards  off  the  Dublin  mail-coach  road,  nearly 
mid-way  between  Kil#ortii  and  Ferinoy. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  TOM  BOURKE.  55 

partner,  and  show  what  you  can  do,  but  take  care  and  don't 
offer  to  kiss  her.'  'That  I  won't,'  says  Davy,  *  although 
her  lips  were  made  of  honey.'  And  with  that  he  made  his 
bow  to  the  purtiest  girl  in  the  ring,  and  he  and  she  began 
to  dance.  'Twas  a  jig  they  danced,  and  they  did  it  to  th' 
admiration,  do  you  see,  of  all  that  were  there.  ^Twas  all 
very  well  till  the  jig  was  over;  but  just  as  they  had  done, 
Dav)^,  for  he  had  a  drop  in,  and  was  warm  with  the  dancing, 
forgot  himself,  and  kissed  his  partner,  according  to  cus- 
tom. The  smack  was  no  sooner  off  his  lips,  you  see,  than 
he  was  left  alone  in  the  churchyard,  without  a  creature 
near  him,  and  all  he  could  see  was  the  tall  tombstones. 
Davy  said  they  seemed  as  if  they  were  dancing  too,  but  I 
suppose  that  was  only  the  wonder  that  happened  him,  and 
he  being  a  little  in  drink.  Howsomever,  he  found  it  was 
a  great  many  hours  later  than  he  thought  it;  ^twas  near 
morning  when  he  came  home;  but  they  couldn't  get  a 
word  out  of  him  till  the  next  day,  when  he  woke  out  of  a 
dead  sleep  about  twelve  o'clock." 

When  Tom  had  finished  the  account  of  Davy  Roche  and 
the  berrin,it  became  quite  evident  that  spirits  of  some  sort 
were  working  too  strong  within  him  to  admit  of  his  telling 
many  more  tales  of  the  good  people.  Tom  seemed  con- 
scious of  this. — He  muttered  for  a  few  minutes  broken  sen- 
tences concerning  church-yards,  river-sides,  peprechans,and 
dina  magh,  which  were  quite  unintelligible,  perhaps  to  him- 
self, certainly  to  Mr.  Martin  and  his  lady.  At  length  he 
made  a  slight  motion  of  the  head  upwards,  as  if  he  would 
say,  "  I  can  talk  no  more;"  stretched  his  arm  on  the  table, 
upon  which  he  placed  the  empty  tumbler  slowly,  and  with 
the  most  knowing  and  cautious  air;  and  rising  from  his 
chair,  walked,  or  rather  rolled,  to  the  parlour  door.  Here 
he  turned  round  to  face  his  host  and  hostess;  but  after  va- 
rious  ineffectual  attempts  to  bid  them  good  night,  the  words, 
as  they  rose,  being  always  choked  by  a  violent  hiccup, 
while  the  door,  which  he  held  by  the  handle,  swung  to  and 
fro,  carrying  his  unyielding  body  along  with  it,  he  was 
obliged  to  depart  in  silence.  The  cow-boy,  sent  by  Tom's 
wife,  who  knew  well  what  sort  of  allurement  detained  him, 
when  he  remained  out  after  a  certain  hour,  was  in  atten- 
dance to  conduct  bis  master  home.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
he  returned  without  meeting  any  material  injury,  as  I  know 


56  FAIRIES  OR  NO  FAIRIES. 

that  within  the  last  month,  he  was,  to  use  his  own  words, 
"As  stout  and  hearty  a  man  as  any  of  his  age  in  the  county 
Cork." 


FAIRIES  OR  NO  FiVIRIES. 

VIII. 

John  Mulligan  was  as  fine  an  old  fellow  as  ever  threw 
a  Carlow  spur  into  the  sides  of  a  horse.  He  was,  besides, 
as  jolly  a  boon  companion  over  a  jug  of  punch  as  you  would 
meet  from  Carnsore  Point  to  Bloody  Farland.  And  a 
good  horse  he  used  to  ride;  and  a  stifFer  jug  of  punch  than 
his  was  not  in  nineteen  baronies.  May  be  he  stuck  more 
to  it  than  he  ought  to  have  done — but  that  is  nothing  what- 
ever to  the  story  I  am  going  to  tell. 

John  believed  devoutly  in  fairies;  and  an  angry  man 
was  he  if  you  doubted  them.  He  had  more  fairy  stories 
than  would  make,  if  properly  printed  in  a  rivulet  of  print 
running  down  a  meadow  of  margin,  two  thick  quartos  for 
Mr.  Murray,  of  Albemarle  street;  all  of  which  he  used  to 
tell  on  all  occasions  that  he  could  find  listeners.  Many 
believed  his  stories — many  more  did  not  believe  them — 
but  nobod}^  in  process  of  time,  used  to  contradict  the  old 
gentleman,  for  it  was  a  pity  to  vex  him.  But  he  had  a  cou- 
ple of  young  neighbours  who  were  just  come  down  from 
their  first  vacation  in  Trinity  College  to  spend  the  summer 
months  with  an  uncle  of  theirs,  Mr.  Whaley,  an  old  Crom- 
vvellian,  who  lived  at  Ballybegmullinahone,  and  they  were 


FAIRIES  OR  NO  FAIRIES.  57 

too  full  of  logic  to  let  the  old  man  have  his  own  way  un- 
disputed. 

Every  story  he  told  they  laughed  at,  and  said  that  it  was 
impossible — that  it  was  merely  old  woman's  gabble,  and 
other  such  things.  When  he  would  insist  that  all  his  sto- 
ries were  derived  from  the  most  credible  sources — nay, 
that  some  of  them  had  been  told  him  by  his  own  grandmo- 
ther, a  very  respectable  old  lady,  but  slightly  affected  in 
her  faculties,  as  things  that  came  under  her  own  know- 
ledge— they  cut  the  matter  short  by  declaring  that  she  was 
in  her  dotage,  and  at  the  best  of  times  had  a  strong  propen- 
sity to  pulling  a  long  bow. 

"But,"  said  the}^,  "Jack  Mulligan  did  you  ever  see  a 
fairy  yourself?" 

"  Never,"  was  the  reply. — "  Never,  as  I  am  a  man  of 
honour  and  credit." 

"Well,  then,"  they  answered,  "until  you  do,  do  not  be 
bothering  us  with  any  more  tales  of  my  grandmother." 

Jack  was  particularly  nettled  at  this,  and  took  up  the 
cudgels  for  his  grandmother;  but  the  younkers  were  too 
sharp  for  him,  and  finally  he  got  into  a  passion,  as  people 
generally  do  who  have  the  worst  of  an  argument.  This 
evening  it  was  at  their  uncle's,  an  old  crony  of  his,  with 
whom  he  had  dined — he  had  taken  a  large  portion  of  his 
usual  beverage,  and  was  quite  riotous.  He  at  last  got  up 
in  a  passion,  ordered  his  horse,  and,  in  spite  of  his  host's 
entreaties,  galloped  off,  although  he  had  intended  to  have 
slept  there;  declaring  that  he  would  not  have  any  thing 
more  to  do  with  a  pair  of  jackanapes  puppies,  who,  because 
they  had  learned  how  to  read  good-for-nothing  books  in 
cramp  writing,  and  were  taught  by  a  parcel  of  wiggy,  red- 
snouted,  prating  prigs,  ("  not,"  added  he,  "  however,  that 
I  say  a  man  may  not  be  a  good  man  and  have  a  red  nose,") 
they  imagined  they  knew  more  than  a  man  who  had  held 
buckle  and  tongue  together  facing  the  wind  of  the  world 
for  five  dozen  years. 

He  rode  off  in  a  fret,  and  galloped  as  hard  as  his  horse 
Shaunbuie  could  powder  away  over  the  limestone.  "Yes, 
indeed!"  muttered  he,  "the  brats  had  me  in  one  thing — 1 
never  did  see  a  fairy;  and  1  would  give  up  five  as  good 
acres  as  ever  grew  apple-potatoes  to  get  a  glimpse  of  one — 
and  by  the  powers!  what  is  that?" 


Ob  FAIRIES  OR  NO  FAIRIES. 

He  looked,  and  saw  a  gallant  spectacle.  His  road  lay 
by  a  noble  demesne,  gracefully  sprinkled  with  trees,  not 
thickly  planted  as  in  a  dark  forest,  but  disposed,  now  in 
clumps  of  five  or  six,  now  standing  singly,  towering  over 
the  plain  of  verdure  around  them  as  a  beautiful  promontory 
arising  out  of  the  sea.  He  had  come  right  opposite  the 
glory  of  the  wood.  It  was  an  oak,  which  in  the  oldest  ti- 
tle-deeds of  the  county,  and  they  were  at  least  five  hun- 
dred years  old,  was  called  the  old  oak  of  Ballinghassig. 
Age  had  hollowed  its  centre,  but  its  massy  boughs  still 
waved  with  their  dark  serrated  foliage.  The  moon  was 
shining  on  it  bright.  If  I  were  a  poet,  like  Mr.  Words- 
worth, I  should  tell  )^ou  how  the  beautiful  light  was  broken 
into  a  thousand  different  fragments — and  how  it  filled  the 
entire  tree  with  a  glorious  flood,  bathing  every  particu- 
lar leaf,  and  showing  forth  every  particular  bough;  but, 
as  I  am  not  a  poet,  I  shall  go  on  with  my  story.  By  this 
light  Jack  saw  a  brilliant  company  of  lovely  little  forms 
dancing  under  the  oak  with  an  unsteady  and  rolling  mo- 
tion. The  company  was  large.  Some  spread  out  far  be- 
yond the  farthest  boundary  of  the  shadow  of  the  oak's 
branches — some  were  seen  glancing  through  the  flashes  of 
light  shining  through  its  leaves — some  were  barely  visible, 
nestling  under  the  trunk — some,  no  doubt,  were  entirely 
concealed  from  his  eyes.  Never  did  man  see  any  thing 
more  beautiful.  They  w^ere  not  three  inches  in  height, 
but  they  were  white  as  the  driven  snow,  and  beyond  num- 
ber numberless.  Jack  threw  the  bridle  over  his  horse's 
neck,  and  drew  up  to  the  low  wall  which  bounded  the 
demesne,  and  leaning  over  it,  surveyed  with  infinite  de- 
light, their  diversified  gambols.  By  looking  long  at  them, 
he  soon  saw  objects  which  had  not  struck  him  at  first;  in 
particular  that  in  the  middle  was  a  chief  of  superior  sta- 
ture, round  whom  the  group  appeared  to  move.  He  gazed 
so  long  that  he  was  quite  overcome  with  joy,  and  could  not 
help  shouting  out:  "Bravo!  little  fellow,"  said  he,  "  well 
kicked  and  strong."  But  the  instant  he  uttered  the  words 
the  night  was  darkened,  and  the  fairies  vanished  with  the 
speed  of  lightning. 

"  I  wish,"  said  Jack,  "I  had  held  my  tongue;  but  no 
matter  now.  I  shall  just  turn  bridle  about  and  go  back  to 
BallybegmuUinahone  Castle,  and  beat  the  young  Master 


FAIRIES  OK  NO  FAIRIES.  ,  59 

Whaleys,  fine  reasoners  as  they  think  themselves,  out  of 
the  field  clean." 

No  sooner  said  than  done:  and  Jack  was  back  again  as  if 
upon  the  wings  of  the  wind.  He  rapped  fiercely  at  the 
door,  and  called  aloud  for  the  two  collegians. 

"  Halloo !"  said  he,  "  young  Flatcaps,  come  down,  if  you 
dare.  Come  down,  if  you  dare,  and  I  shall  give  you  oc-oc- 
ocular  demonstration  of  the  truth  of  what  I  was  saying. '^ 

Old  Whaley  put  his  head  out  of  the  window,  and  said, 
"Jack  Mulligan,  what  brings  you  back  so  soon?" 

"  The  fairies,"  shouted  Jack;  "  the  fairies!" 

"1  am  afraid,"  muttered  the  Lord  of  Bally  begmullinahone, 
"the  last  glass  you  took  was  too  little  watered;  but,  no  mat- 
ter— come  in  and  cool  yourself  over  a  tumbler  of  punch." 

He  came  in  and  sat  down  again  at  table.  In  great  spi- 
rits he  told  his  story; — how  he  had  seen  thousands  and 
tens  of  thousands  of  fairies  dancing  about  the  old  oak  of 
Ballinghassig;  he  described  their  beautiful  dresses  of  shining 
silver;  their  flat-crowned  hats,  glittering  in  the  moon- 
beams; and  the  princely  stature  and  demeanourof  the  central 
figure.  He  added,  that  he  heard  them  singing  and  playing 
the  most  enchanting  music;  but  this  was  merely  imagina- 
tion. The  young  men  laughed,  but  Jack  held  his  ground. 
"  Suppose,"  said  one  of  the  lads,  "  we  join  company 
with  you  on  the  road,  and  ride  along  to  the  place,  where 
you  saw  that  fine  company  of  fairies?" 

"Done!"  cried  Jack;  "but  I  will  not  promise  that  you 
will  find  them  there,  for  I  saw  them  scudding  up  in  the 
sky  like  a  flight  of  bees,  and  heard  their  wings  whizzing 
through  the  air."  This,  you  know,  was  a  bounce,  for  Jack 
had  heard  no  such  thing. 

OS  rode  the  three,  and  came  to  the  demesne  of  Oak- 
wood.  They  arrived  at  the  wall  flanking  the  field  where 
stood  the  great  oak;  and  the  moon,  by  this  time,  having 
again  emerged  from  the  clouds,  shone  bright  as  when  Jack 
had  passed.  "Look  there,"  he  cried,  exultingly:  for  the 
same  spectacle  again  caught  his  eyes,  and  he  pointed  to  it 
with  his  horsewhip;  "look,  and  deny  if  you  can." 

"Why,"  said  one  of  the  lads,  pausing,  "true  it  is  that 
we  do  see  a  company  of  white  creatures;  but  were  they 
fairies  ten  times  over,  I  shall  go  among  them;"  and  he 
dismounted  to  climb  over  the  wall. 


60  DAIRIES  on  NO  FAIRIES. 

"Ah,  Tom!  Tom,"  cried  Jack,  "stop,  man,  stop!  what 
are  you  doing?  The  fairies — the  good  people,  I  mean — 
hate  to  be  meddled  with.  You  will  be  pinched  or  blinded; 
or  your  horse  will  cast  its  shoe;  or — look!  a  wilful  man 
will  have  his  w^ay.  Oh!  oh!  he  is  almost  at  the  oak — God 
help  him!  for  he  is  past  the  help  of  man." 

By  this  time  Tom  was  under  the  tree,  and  burst  out 
laughing.  "Jack,"  said  he,  "  keep  your  prayers  to  your- 
self. Your  fairies  are  not  bad  at  all.  1  believe  they  will 
make  tolerably  good  catsup." 

"  Catsup,"  said  Jack,  who,  when  he  found  that  the  two 
lads  (for  the  second  had  followed  his  brother)  were  both 
laughing  in  the  middle  of  the  fairies,  had  dismounted  and 
advanced  slowly — "What  do  you  mean  by  catsup?" 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Tom,  "  but  that  they  are  mush- 
rooms (as  indeed  they  were:)  and  your  Oberon  is  merely 
this  overgrown  puff-ball." 

Poor  Mulligan  gave  a  long  whistle  of  amazement,  stag- 
gered back  to  his  horse  without  saying  a  word,  and  rode 
home  in  a  hard  gallop,  never  looking  behind  him.  Many 
a  long  day  was  it  before  he  ventured  to  face  the  laughers 
at  Ballybegmullinahone;  and  to  the  day  of  his  death  the 
people  of  the  parish,  ay,  and  five  parishes  round  called 
him  nothing  but  musharoon  Jack,  such  being  their  pronun- 
ciation of  mushroom. 

I  should  be  sorry  if  all  my  fairy  stories  ended  with  so 
little  dignity:  but — 

"  These  our  actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air — ^into  thin  air." 


The  name  Shepro,  by  which  the  foregoing  section  is  distinguished^ 
literally  signifies  a  fairy  house  or  mansion,  and  is  adopted  as  a  ge- 
neral name  for  the  Elves  who  are  supposed  to  live  in  troops  or  com- 
munities, and  were  popularly  supposed  to  have  castles  or  mansions 
of  their  own. — See  Stewart's  Popular  Superstitions  of  the  High- 
lands, 1823,  pp.  90,  91,  (fcc. 

(S/a,  sigh,  sighe,  sigheann,  siabhra,  siachaire,  siogidh,  are  Irish 
words,  evidently  springing  from  a  common  Celtic  root,  used  to  ex- 
press a  fairy  or  goblin,  and  even  a  hag  or  witch.  Thus  we  have 
the  compounds  Leannan-sighe,  a  familiar,  from  Leannan,  a  pet, 
and  Sioghdhraoidheachd,  enchantment  with  or  by  spirits. 

Sigh  gdoithe  or  siaheann-gdoithe,  a  whirlwind,  is  so  termed 
because  it  is  said  to  be  raised  by  the  fairies.  The  close  of  day  is 
called  Sia,  because  twilight, 

"  That  sweet  hour,  when  day  is  almost  closing," 

is  the  time  when  the  fairies  are  most  frequently  seen.  Again,  Sigh 
is  a  hill  or  hillock,  because  the  fairies  are  believed  to  dwell  within, 
Sidhe,  sidheadh,  and  sigh,  are  names  for  a  blast  or  blight,  because 
it  is  supposed  to  proceed  from  the  fairies. 

The  term  Shoges,  i.  e.  Sigh  oges  (young  or  little  spirits,)  Fai- 
ries, is  used  in  a  curious  poem  printed  under  the  name  of  "  The 
Irish  Hudibras,"  1689,  pp.  23,  and  81 ;  a  copy  of  which,  entitled 
"The  Fingallian  Travesty,"  is  among  the  Sloane  MSS.  No.  900. 
In  the  Third  Part  of  O'Flaherty's  Ogygia,  it  is  related  that  St.  Pa- 
trick and  some  of  his  followers,  who  were  chanting  matins  beside  a 
fountain,  were  taken  for  "  Sidhe,  or  fairies,"  by  some  pagan  ladies. 

*'  The  Irish,"  according  to  the  Rev,  James  Hely's  translation  of 
O'Flaherty,  "call  these  Sidhe,  aerial  spirits  or  phantoms,  because 
they  are  seen  to  come  out  of  pleasant  hills,  where  the  common 
people  imagine  they  reside,  which  fictitious  habitations  are  called 
by  us  Sidhe  or  Siodha.''^ 

For  a  similar  extended  use  of  the  German  word  Alp,  Elf,  «Stc. 
see  Introductory  Essay  to  the  Grimms'  Irische  Elfenmdrcheny  pp. 
55—6-2. 

6 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  CLURICAUNE 


That  sottish  elf 


Who  quaffs  with  swollen  lips  the  ruby  wine, 

Draining  the  cellar  with  as  free  a  hand 

As  if  it  were  his  purse  which  ne'er  lacked  coin; — 

And  then,  with  feign'd  contrition  ruminates 

Upon  his  wasteful  pranks,  and  revelry, 

In  some  secluded  dell  or  lonely  grove 

Tinsel'd  by  Twilight."— 


THE  HAUNTED  CELLAR. 


IX. 

There  are  few^  people  who  have  not  heard  of  the  Mac 
Carthies — one  of  the  real  old  Irish  families,  with  the  true 
Milesian  blood  running  in  their  veins,  as  thick  as  butter- 
milk. Many  were  the  clans  of  this  family  in  the  south;  as 
the  Mac  Carthy-more — and  the  Mac  Carthy-reagh — and 
the  Mac  Carthy  of  Muskerry;  and  all  of  them  were  noted 
for  their  hospitality  to  strangers,  gentle  and  simple. 

But  not  one  of  that  name,  or  of  any  other,  exceeded 
Justin  Mac  Carthy,  of  Ballinacarthy,  at  putting  plenty  to 
eat  and  drink  upon  his  table;  and  there  was  a  right  hearty 


64  THE  HAUNTED  CELLAR. 

welcome  for  every  one  who  would  share  it  with  him. 
Many  a  wine-cellar  would  be  ashamed  of  the  name  if  that 
at  Ballinacarthy  was  the  proper  pattern  for  one;  larp;.e  as  that 
cellar  was,  it  was  crowded  with  bins  of  wine,  and  long  rows 
of  pipes,  and  hogsheads,  and  casks,  that  it  would  take  more 
time  to  count  than  any  sober  man  could  spare  in  such  a 
place,  with  plenty  to  drink  about  him,  and  a  hearty  wel- 
come to  do  so. 

There  are  many,  no  doubt,  who  will  think  that  the  but- 
ler would  have  little  to  complain  of  in  such  a  house;  and  the 
whole  countr}''  round  would  have  agreed  with  them,  if  a 
man  could  be  found  to  remain  as  Mr.  Mac  Carthy's  butler 
for  any  length  of  time  worth  speaking  of;  yet  not  one  who 
had  been  in  his  service  gave  him  a  bad  word. 

"We  have  no  fault,''  they  would  say,  "to  find  with  the 
master;  and  if  he  could  but  get  any  one  to  fetch  his  wine 
from  the  cellar,  we  might  every  one  of  us  have  grown  gray 
in  the  house,  and  have  lived  quiet  and  contented  enough 
in  his  service  until  the  end  of  our  days." 

"'Tis  a  queer  thing  that,  surely,"  thought  young  Jack 
Leary,  a  lad  who  had  been  brought  up  from  a  mere  child 
in  the  stables  of  Ballinacarthy  to  assist  in  taking  care  of  the 
horses,  and  had  occasionally  lent  a  hand  in  the  butler's  pan- 
try:— "'tis  a  mighty  queer  thing,  surely,  that  one  man  after 
another  cannot  content  himself  with  the  best  place  in  the 
house  of  a  good  master,  but  that  every  one  of  them  must 
quit,  all  through  the  means,  as  they  say,  of  the  wine-cellar. 
If  the  master,  long  life  to  him!  would  but  make  me  his 
butler,  I  warrant  never  the  word  more  would  be  heard  of 
grumbling  at  his  bidding  to  go  to  the  wine-cellar. 

Young  Leary  accordingly  watched  for  what  he  conceived 
to  be  a  favourable  opportunity  of  presenting  himself  to  the 
notice  of  his  master. 

A  few  mornings  after,  Mr.  Mac  Carthy  went  into  his 
stabk-yard  rather  earlier  than  usual,  and  called  loudly  for 
the  groom  to  saddle  his  horse,  as  he  intended  going  out 
with  the  hounds.  But  there  was  no  groom  to  answer,  and 
young  Jack  Leary  led  Rainbow  out  of  the  stable. 

-<*  VVhere  is  William?"  inquired  Mr.  Mac  Carth3^ 

^*Sir?"  said  Jack;  and  Mr.  Mac  Carthy  repeated  the 
questiofL 


THE  HAUNTED  CELLAR.  65 

"Is  it  William,  please  your  honour?''  returned  Jack; 
"why,  then,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  had  just  one  drop  too  much 
last  night." 

"Where  did  he  get  it?"  said  Mr.  Mac  Carthy;  "for  since 
Thomas  went  away,  the  key  of  the  wine-cellar  has  been  in 
my  pocket,  and  I  have  been  obliged  to  fetch  what  was 
drank  myself." 

''Sorrow  a  know  I  know,"  said  Leary,  "unless  the  cook 
might  have  given  him  the  least  taste  in  life  of  whiskey. 
But,"  continued  he,  performing  a  low  bow  by  seizing  with 
his  right  hand  a  lock  of  hair,  and  pulling  down  his  head  by 
it,  whilst  his  left  leg  which  had  been  put  forward,  was 
scraped  back  against  the  ground,  "may  I  make  so  bold  as 
just  to  ask  your  honour  one  question?" 

'* Speak  out.  Jack,"  said  Mr.  Mac  Carthy. 

"Why,  then,  does  your  honour  want  a  butler?" 

"Can  you  recommend  me  one,"  returned  his  master, 
with  a  smile  of  good  humour  upon  his  countenance,  "and 
one  who  will  not  be  afraid  of  going  to  my  wine-cellar?" 

"Is  the  wine-cellar  all  the  matter?"  said  young  Leary: 
"not  a  doubt  have  1  of  myself  then  for  that." 

"So  you  mean  to  offer  me  your  services  in  the  capacity 
of  butler?"  said  Mr.  Mac  Carthy,  with  some  surprise. 

"Exactly  so,"  answered  Leary,  now  for  the  first  time 
looking  up  from  the  ground. 

"Well,  I  believe  you  to  be  a  good  lad,  and  have  no  ob- 
jection to  give  you  a  trial." 

"Long  may  your  honour  reign  over  us,  and  the  Lord 
spare  you  to  us  I"  ejaculated  Leary,  with  another  national 
bow,  as  his  master  rode  off;  and  he  continued  for  some 
time  to  gaze  after  him  with  a  vacant  stare,  which  slowly 
and  gradually  assumed  a  look  of  importance. 

"Jack  Leary,"  said  he  at  length,  "Jack — is  it  Jack?" 
in  a  tone  of  wonder;  "faith, 'tis  not  Jack  now,  but  Mr. 
John,  the  butler;"  and  with  an  air  of  becoming  conse- 
quence he  strided  out  of  the  stable-yard  towards  the  kit- 
chen. 

It  is  of  little  purport  to  my  story,  although  it  may  afford 
an  instructive  lesson  to  the  reader,  to  depict  the  sudden 
transition  of  nobody  into  somebody.  Jack's  former  stable 
companion,  a  poor  superannuated  hound  named  Bran,  who 

6* 


06  THE  HAUNTED  CELLAR. 

had  been  accustomed  to  receive  many  an  affectionate  tap 
on  the  head,  was  spurned  from  him  with  a  kick  and  an 
*«  Out  of  the  way,  sirrah."  Indeed,  poor  Jack's  memory 
seemed  sadly  affected  by  this  sudden  change  of  situation. 
What  established  the  point  beyond  all  doubt  was  his  almost 
forgetting  the  pretty  face  of  Peggy,  the  kitchen  wench, 
whose  heart  he  had  assailed  but  the  preceding  week  by  the 
offer  of  purchasing  a  gold  ring  for  the  fourth  finger  of  her 
right  hand,  and  a  lusty  imprint  of  good-will  upon  her  lips. 

When  Mr.  Mac  Carthy  returned  from  hunting,  he  sent 
for  Jack  Leary — so  he  still  continued  to  call  his  new  but- 
ler. "  Jack,"  said  he,  "  I  believe  you  are  a  trustworthy 
lad,  and  here  are  the  keys  of  my  cellar.  I  have  asked  the 
gentlemen  with  whom  1  hunted  to-day  to  dine  with  me, 
and  1  hope  they  may  be  satisfied  at  the  way  in  which  you 
will  wait  on  them  at  table;  but,  above  all,  let  there  be  no 
want  of  wine  after  dinner." 

Mr.  John  having  a  tolerably  quick  eye  for  such  things, 
and  being  naturally  a  handy  lad,  spread  his  cloth  accord- 
ingly, laid  his  plates  and  knives  and  forks  in  the  same 
manner  he  had  seen  his  predecessors  in  office  perform  these 
mysteries,  and  really,  for  the  first  time,  got  through  at- 
tendance on  dinner  very  well. 

It  must  not  be  forgotten,  however,  that  it  was  at  the 
house  of  an  Irish  country  squire,  who  was  entertaining  a 
company  of  booted  and  spurred  fox-hunters,  not  very  par- 
ticular about  what  are  considered  matters  of  infinite  impor- 
tance under  other  circumstances  and  in  other  societies. 

For  instance,  few  of  Mr.  Mac  Carthy's  guests,  (though 
all  excellent  and  worthy  men  in  their  way,)  cared  much 
whether  the  punch  produced  after  soup  was  made  of  Ja- 
maica or  Antigua  rum;  some  even  would  not  have  been 
inclined  to  question  the  correctness  of  good  old  Irish  whis- 
key; and,  with  the  exception  of  their  liberal  host  himself, 
every  one  in  company  preferred  the  port  which  Mr.  Mac 
Carthy  put  on  his  table  to  the  less  ardent  flavour  of  claret, 
— a  choice  rather  at  variance  with  modern  sentiment. 

It  was  waxing  near  midnight,  when  Mr.  INIac  Carlhy 
rang  the  bell  three  times.  This  was  a  signal  for  more  wine; 
and  Jack  proceeded  to  the  cellar  to  procure  a  fresh  supply, 
but  it  must  be  confessed  not  without  some  little  hesitation. 


THE  HAUNTED  CELLAR.  67 

The  luxury  of  ice  was  then  unknown  in  the  south  of 
Ireland;  but  the  superiority  of  cool  wine  had  been  ac- 
knowledged by  all  men  of  sound  judgment  and  true  taste. 

The  grandfather  of  Mr.  Mac  Carthy,  who  had  built  the 
mansion  of  Ballinacarthy  upon  the  site  of  an  old  castle 
which  had  belonged  to  his  ancestors,  was  fully  aware  of 
this  important  fact;  and  in  the  construction  of  his  magnifi- 
cent wine-cellar  had  availed  himself  of  a  deep  vault,  exca- 
vated out  of  the  solid  rock  in  former  times  as  a  place  of 
retreat  and  security.  The  descent  to  this  vault  was  by 
a  flight  of  steep  stone  stairs,  and  here  and  there  in  the  wall 
were  narrow  passages — I  ought  rather  to  call  them  crevices; 
and  also  certain  projections  which  cast  deep  shadows,  and 
looked  very  frightful  when  any  one  went  down  the  cellar 
stairs  with  a  single  light:  indeed,  two  lights  did  not  much 
improve  the  matter,  for  though  the  breadth  of  the  shadows 
became  less,  the  narrow  crevices  remained  as  dark  and 
darker  than  ever. 

Summoning  up  all  his  resolution,  down  went  the  new 
butler,  bearing  in  his  right  hand  a  lantern  and  the  key  of 
the  cellar,  and  in  his  left  a  basket,  which  he  considered 
sufficiently  capacious  to  contain  an  adequate  stock  for  the 
remainder  of  the  evenixig;  he  arrived  at  the  door  without 
any  interruption  whatever;  but  when  he  put  the  key, 
which  was  of  an  ancient  and  clumsy  kind — for  it  was  before 
the  days  of  Bramah's  patent, — and  turned  it  in  the  lock, 
he  thought  he  heard  a  strange  kind  of  laughing  within  the 
cellar,  to  which  some  empty  bottles  that  stood  upon  the 
floor  outside  vibrated  so  violently,  that  they  struck  against 
each  other:  in  this  he  could  not  be  mistaken,  alth9ugh  he 
may  have  been  deceived  in  the  laugh;  for  the  bottles  were 
just  at  his  feet,  and  he  saw  them  in  motion. 

Leary  paused  for  a  moment,  and  looked  about  him  with 
becoming  caution.  He  then  boldly  seized  the  handle  of 
the  key,  and  turned  it  u-ith  all  his  strength  in  the  lock,  as 
if  he  doubted  his  own  power  of  doing  so;  and  the  door 
flew  open  with  a  most  tremendous  crash,  that,  if  the  house 
had  not  been  built  upon  the  solid  rock,  would  have  shook 
it  from  the  foundation. 

To  recount  what  the  poor  fellow  saw  would  be  impossi- 
ble, for  he  seems  not  to  know  \ery  clearly  himself:  but 


68  THE  HAUNTED  CELLAR. 

what  he  told  the  cook  the  next  morning  was,  that  he  heard 
a  roaring  and  bellowing  like  a  mad  bull,  and  that  all  the 
pipes  and  hogsheads  and  casks  in  the  cellar  went  rocking 
backwards  and  forwards  with  so  much  force,  that  he 
thought  every  one  would  have  been  staved  in,  and  that  he 
should  have  been  drowned  or  smothered  in  wine. 

When  Leary  recovered,  he  made  his  way  back  as  well 
as  he  could  to  the  dining-room,  where  he  found  his  master 
and  the  company  very  impatient  for  his  return. 

^<What  kept  you?"  said  Mr.  Mac  Carthy  in  an  angry 
voice ;  "  and  where  is  the  wine?  I  rung  for  it  half  an  hour 
since.'^ 

"The  wine  is  in  the  cellar,  I  hope,  sir,"  said  Jack, 
trembling  violently;  "  I  hope  'tis  not  all  lost." 

"What  do  you  mean,  fool?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Mac  Carthy 
in  a  still  more  angry  tone:  "why  did  you  not  fetch  some 
with  you?" 

Jack  looked  wildly  about  him,  and  only  uttered  a  deep 
groan. 

'^  Gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Mac  Carthy  to  his  guests,  "  this 
is  too  much.  When  I  next  see  you  to  dinner,  I  hope  it 
will  be  in  another  house,  for  it  is  impossible  I  can  remain 
longer  in  this,  where  a  man  has  no  command  over  his  own 
wine-cellar,  and  cannot  get  a  butler  to  do  his  duty.  I  have 
long  thought  of  moving  from  Ballinacarthy ;  and  I  am  now 
determined,  with  the  blessing  of  God,  to  leave  it  to-morrow. 
But  wine  shall  you  have,  were  I  to  go  myself  to  the  cellar 
for  it."  So  saying,  he  rose  from  the  table,  took  the  key 
and  lantern  from  his  half  stupified  servant,  who  regarded 
him  with  a  look  of  vacancy,  and  descended  the  narrow 
stairs,  already  described,  which  led  to  his  cellar. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  door,  which  he  found  open,  he 
thought  he  heard  a  noise,  as  if  of  rats  or  mice  scrambling 
over  the  casks,  and  on  advancing  perceived  a  little  figure, 
about  six  inches  in  height,  seated  astride  upon  the  pipe  of 
the  oldest  port  in  the  place,  and  bearing  the  spigot  upon 
his  shoulder.  Raising  the  lantern,  Mr.  Mac  Carthy  con- 
templated the  little  fellow  with  wonder:  he  wore  a  red 
nightcap  on  his  head;  before  him  was  a  short  leather  apron, 
which  now,  from  his  attitude,  fell  rather  on  one  side;  and 
he  had  stockings  of  a  light  blue  colour,  so  long  as  nearly  to 


THE  HAUNTED  CELLAR.  69 

cover  the  entire  of  his  legs;  with  shoes,  having  huge  silver 
buckles  in  them,  and  with  high  heels  (perhaps  out  of  vanity 
to  make  him  appear  taller).  His  face  was  like  a  withered 
winter  apple;  and  his  nose,  which  was  of  a  bright  crimson 
colour,  about  the  tip  wore  a  delicate  purple  bloom,  like 
that  of  a  plum:  yet  his  eyes  twinkled 

"  like  those  mites 
Of  candied  dew  in  moony  nights — 

and  his  mouth  twitched  up  at  one  side  wilh  an  arch  grin. 

"Ha,  scoundrel!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Mac  Carthy,  "have  I 
found  you  at  last?  disturber  of  my  cellar — what  are  you 
doing  there?" 

"Sure,  and  master,"  returned  the  little  fellow,  looking 
up  at  him  with  one  eye,  and  with  the  other  throwing  a  sly 
glance  towards  the  spigot  on  his  shoulder,  "a'n't  we  going 
to  move  to-morrow?  and  sure  you  would  not  leave  your 
own  little  Cluricaune  Naggeneen  behind  you?'' 

"Oh!"  thought  Mr.  Mac  Carthy,  "if  you  are  to  follow 
me,  Master  Naggeneen,  1  don't  see  much  use  in  quitting 
Ballinacarthy."  So  filling  with  wine  the  basket  which 
young  Leary  in  his  fright  had  left  behind  him,  and  locking 
the  cellar  door,  he  rejoined  his  guests. 

For  some  years  after,  Mr.  Mac  Carthy  had  always  to 
fetch  the  wine  for  his  table  himself,  as  the  little  Cluricaune 
Naggeneen  seemed  to  feel  a  personal  respect  towards  him. 
Notwithstanding  the  labour  of  these  journeys,  the  worthy 
lord  of  Ballinacarthy  lived  in  his  paternal  mansion  to  a 
good  round  age,  and  was  famous  to  the  last  for  the  excel- 
lence of  his  wine,  and  the  conviviality  of  his  company;  but 
at  the  time  of  his  death,  that  same  conviviality  had  nearly 
emptied  his  wine-cellar;  and  as  it  was  never  so  well  filled 
again,  nor  so  often  visited,  the  revels  of  Master  Naggeneen 
became  less  celebrated,  and  are  now  only  spoken  of 
amongst  the  legendary  lore  of  the  country.  It  is  even  said 
that  the  poor  little  fellow  took  the  declension  of  the  cellar 
so  to  heart,  that  he  became  negligent  and  careless  of  him- 
self, and  that  he  has  been  sometimes  seen  going  about  with 
hardly  a  skreed  to  cover  him. 

Some,  however,  believe  that  he  turned  brogue-maker, 
and  assert  that  they  have  seen  him  at  his  work,  and  heard 


70  MASTER  AND  MAN. 

him  whistling  as  merry  as  a  blackbird  on  a  May  morn- 
ing, under  the  shadow  of  a  brown  jug  of  foaming  ale, 
bigger — ay  bigger  than  himself;  decently  dressed  enough, 
they  say-; — only  looking  mighty  old.  I3ut  still  'tis  clear 
he  has  his  wits  about  him,  since  no  one  ever  had  the  luck 
to  catch  him,  or  to  get  hold  of  the  purse  he  has  with  him, 
which  they  call  spre-na-skilUnagh,  and  'tis  said  is  never 
without  a  shilling  in  it. 


SS^SS^ 


MASTER  AND  MAN. 

X. 

Billy  Mac  Daniel  was  once  as  likely  a  young  man  as 
ever  shook  his  brogue  at  a  patron,  emptied  a  quart,  or 
handled  a  shillelagh:  fearing  for  nothing  but  the  want  of 
drink;  caring  for  nothing  but  who  should  pay  for  it;  and 
thinking  of  nothing  but  how  to  make  fun  over  it:  drunk 
or  sober,  a  word  and  a  blow  was  ever  the  way  with  Billy 
Mac  Daniel;  and  a  mighty  easy  way  it  is  of  either  getting 
into  or  ending  a  dispute.  More  is  the  pity,  that  through 
the  means  of  his  drinking,  and  fearing  and  caring  for 
nothing,  this  same  Billy  Mac  Daniel  fell  into  bad  company; 
for  surely  the  good  people  are  the  worst  of  all  company 
any  one  could  come  across. 

It  so  happened  that  Billy  was  going  home  one  clear 
frosty  night  not  long  after  Christmas;  the  moon  was  round 


MASTER  AND  MAN.  71 

and  bright;  but  although  it  was  as  fine  a  night  as  heart 
could  wish  for,  he  felt  pinched  with  the  cold.  "  By  my 
word,"  chattered  Billy,  "  a  drop  of  good  liquor  would  be 
no  bad  thing  to  keep  a  man's  soul  from  freezing  in  him; 
and  I  wish  I  had  a  full  measure  of  the  best." 

"Never  wish  it  twice,  Billy,"  said  a  little  man  in  a 
three-cornered  hat,  bound  all  about  with  gold  lace,  and 
with  great  silver  buckles  in  his  shoes,  so  big  that  it  was  a 
wonder  how  he  could  carry  them,  and  he  held  out  a  glass 
as  big  as  himself,  filled  with  as  good  liquor  as  ever  eye 
looked  on  or  lip  tasted. 

"Success,  my  little  fellow,"  said  Billy  Mac  Daniel, 
nothing  daunted,  though  well  he  knew  the  little  man  to 
belong  to  the  good  people;  "  here's  your  health,  any  way, 
and  thank  you  kindly;  no  matter  who  pays  for  the  drink;" 
and  he  took  the  glass  and  drained  it  to  the  very  bottom, 
without  ever  taking  a  second  breath  to  it. 

"Success,"  said  the  little  man;  "and  you're  heartily 
welcome,  Billy;  but  don't  think  to  cheat  me  as  you  have 
done  others, — out  with  your  purse  and  pay  me  like  a  gen- 
tleman." 

"Is  it  I  pay  you?"  said  Billy:  "could  I  not  just  take 
you  up  and  put  you  in  my  pocket  as  easily  as  a  blackberry.?" 

"Billy  Mac  Daniel,"  said  the  little  man,  getting  very 
angry,  "  you  shall  be  my  servant  for  seven  years  and  a  day, 
and  that  is  the  way  I  will  be  paid;  so  make  ready  to  follow 
me." 

When  Billy  heard  this,  he  began  to  be  very  sorry  for 
having  used  such  bold  words  towards  the  little  man;  and 
he  felt  himself,  yet  could  not  tell  how,  obliged  to  follow 
the  little  man  the  livelong  night  about  the  country,  up  and 
down,  and  over  hedge  and  ditch,  and  through  bog  and 
brake,  without  any  rest. 

When  morning  began  to  dawn,  the  little  man  turned 
round  to  him  and  said,  "You  may  now  go  home,  Billy, 
but  on  your  peril  don't  fail  to  m.eet  me  in  the  Fort-field 
to-night;  or  if  you  do,  it  may  be  the  worse  for  you  in  the 
long  run.  If  I  find  you  a  good  servant,  you  will  find  me  an 
indulgent  master." 

Home  went  Billy  Mac  Daniel;  and  though  he  was  tired 
and  weary  enough,  never  a  wink  of  sleep  could  he  get  for 


72  MASTER  AND  MAN. 

thinking  of  the  little  man;  but  he  was  afraid  not  to  do  his 
bidding,  so  up  he  got  in  the  evening,  and  away  he  went  to 
the  Fort-field.  He  was  not  long  there  before  the  little  man 
came  towards  him  and  said,  "  Billy,  I  want  to  go  a  long 
journey  to-night;  so  saddle  one  of  my  horses,  and  you  may 
saddle  another  for  yourself,  as  you  are  to  go  along  with  me, 
and  may  be  tired  after  your  walk  last  night." 

Billy  thought  this  very  considerate  of  his  master,  and 
thanked  him  accordingly:  "But,'^  said  he,  "if  I  may  be 
so  bold,  sir,  I  would  ask  which  is  the  way  to  your  stable, 
for  never  a  thing  do  I  see  but  the  fort  here,  and  the  old 
thorn  tree  in  the  corner  of  the  field,  and  the  stream  run- 
ning at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  wdth  the  bit  of  bog  over 
against  us." 

"Ask  no  questions,  Billy,"  said  the  little  man,  "but  go 
over  to  that  bit  of  bog,  and  bring  me  two  of  the  strongest 
rushes  you  can  find." 

Billy  did  accordingly,  w^ondering  what  the  little  man 
would  be  at;  and  he  picked  out  two  of  the  stoutest  rushes 
he  could  find,  with  a  little  bunch  of  brown  blossom  stuck 
at  the  side  of  each,  and  brought  them  back  to  his  master. 
"  Get  up,  Billy,"  said  the  little  man,  taking  one  of  the 
rushes  from  him  and  striding  across  it. 

"Where  will  I  get  up,  please  your  honour?"  said  Billy. 

"Why,  upon  horseback,  like  me,  to  be  sure,"  said  the 
little  man. 

"Is  it  after  making  a  fool  of  me  you'd  be,"  said  Billy, 
"  bidding  me  get  a  horse-back  upon  that  bit  of  a  rush  ?  May 
be  you  want  to  persuade  me  that  the  rush  I  pulled  but 
awhile  ago  out  of  the  bog  over  there  is  a  horse?" 

"Up!  up!  and  no  words,"  said  the  little  man,  looking 
very  vexed;  "the  best  horse  you  ever  rode  was  but  a  fool 
to  it."  So  Billy,  thinking  all  this  was  in  joke,  and  fearing 
to  vex  his  master,  straddled  across  the  rush:  "Borram! 
Borram!  Borram!"  cried  the  little  man  three  times  (which 
in  English,  means  to  become  great),  and  Billy  did  the  same 
after  iiim:  presently  the  rushes  swelled  up  into  fine  horses, 
and  away  they  went  full  speed;  but  Billy,  wiio  had  put  the 
rush  between  his  legs,  without  much  minding  how  he  did 
it,  found  himself  sitting  on  horseback  the  wrong  way, 
which  was  rather  awkward,  with  his  face  to  the  horse's  laiJ; 


MASTER  AND  MAN.  73 

and  so  qoickly  had  his  steed  started  off  with  him,  that  he 
had  no  power  to  turn  round,  and  there  was  therefore 
nothing  for  it  but  to  hold  on  by  the  tail. 

At  last  they  came  to  their  journey^s  end,  and  stopped  at 
the  gate  of  a  fine  house:  "Now,  Billy,"  said  the  little  man, 
"do  as  you  see  me  do,  and  follow  me  close;  but  as  you  did 
not  know  your  horse's  head  from  his  tail,  mind  that  your 
own  head  does  not  spin  round  until  you  can't  tell  whether 
you  are  standing  on  it  or  on  your  heels:  for  remember  that 
old  liquor,  though  able  to  make  a  cat  speak,  can  make  a 
man  dumb.'' 

The  little  man  then  said  some  queer  kind  of  words,  out 
of  which  Billy  could  make  no  meaning;  but  he  contrived 
to  say  them  after  him  for  all  that;  and  in  they  both  went 
through  the  key-hole  of  the  door,  and  through  one  key-hole 
after  another,  until  they  got  into  the  wine-cellar,  which 
was  well  stored  with  all  kinds  of  wine. 

The  little  man  fell  to  drinking  as  hard  as  he  could,  and 
Billy,  noway  disliking  the  example,  did  the  same.  "The 
best  of  masters  are  you  surely,"  said  Billy  to  him;  "no 
matter  who  is  the  next ;  and  well  pleased  will  I  be  with 
your  service  if  you  continue  to  give  me  plenty  to  drink." 

"  I  have  made  no  bargain  with  you,"  said  the  little  man, 
"and  will  make  none;  but  up  and  follow  me."  Away 
they  went,  through  key-hole  after  key-hole;  and  each 
mounting  upon  the  rush  which  he  had  left  at  the  hall  door, 
scampered  off,  kicking  the  clouds  before  them  like  snow- 
balls, as  soon  as  the  words,  "  Borram,  Borram,  Borram," 
had  passed  their  lips. 

When  they  came  back  to  the  Fort-field,  the  little  man 
dismissed  Billy,  bidding  him  to  be  there  the  next  night  at 
the  same  hour.  Thus  did  they  go  on,  night  after  night, 
shaping  their  course  one  night  here,  and  another  night 
there — sometimes  north,  and  sometimes  east,  and  some- 
times south,  until  there  was  not  a  gentleman's  wine-cellar 
in  all  Ireland  the}^  had  not  visited,  and  could  tell  the  fla- 
vour of  every  wine  in  it  as  well — ay,  better  than  the  but- 
ler himself. 

One  night,  when  Billy  Mac  Daniel  met  the  little  man  as 
usual  in  the  Fort-field,  and  was  going  to  the  bog  to  fetch 
the  horses  for  their  journey,  his  master  said  to  him, "  Billy, 
7 


74  MASTER  AND  MAN. 

I  shall  want  another  horse  to-night,  for  may  be  we  may- 
bring  back  more  company  with  us  than  we  take/'  So 
Billy,  who  now  knew  better  than  to  question  any  order 
given  to  him  by  his  master,  brought  a  third  rush,  much  won- 
dering who  it  might  be  that  should  travel  back  in  their  com- 
pany, and  whether  he  was  about  to  have  a  fellow-servant. 
"  If  I  have,"  thought  Billy,  he  shall  go  and  fetch  the  horses 
from  the  bog  every  night;  for  1  don't  see  why  I  am  not, 
every  inch  of  me,  as  good  a  gentleman  as  my  master." 

Well,  away  they  went,  Billy  leading  the  third  horse,  and 
never  stopped  until  they  came  to  a  snug  farmer's  house  in 
the  county  Limerick,  close  under  the  old  castle  of  Carrigo- 
gunniel,  that  was  built,  they  say,  by  the  great  Brian  Boru. 
Within  the  house  there  was  great  carousing  going  forward, 
and  the  little  man  stopped  outside  for  some  time  to  listen; 
then  turning  round  all  of  a  sudden,  said,  "Billy,  I  will  be 
a  thousand  years  old  to-morrow!" 

"  God  bless  us,  sir,"  said  Billy,  "will  you?" 

"Don't  say  these  words  again,  Billy,"  said  the  little 
man,  "or  you  will  be  my  ruin  for  ever.  Now,  Billy,  as  I 
will  be  a  thousand  years  in  the  world  to-morrow,  1  think 
it  is  full  time  for  me  to  get  married." 

"I  think  so  too,  without  any  kind  of  doubt  at  all,"  said 
Billy,  "  if  ever  you  mean  to  marry." 

"  And  to  that  purpose,"  said  the  little  man,  "  have  I  come 
all  the  way  to  Carrigogunniel;  for  in  this  house,  this  very 
night,  is  young  Darby  Riley  going  to  be  married  to  Bridget 
Rooney;  and  as  she  is  a  tall  and  comely  girl,  and  has  come 
of  decent  people,  I  think  of  marrying  her  myself,  and 
taking  her  off  with  me." 

"And  what  will  Darby  Riley  say  to  that?"  said  Billy. 

"Silence!"  said  the  little  man,  putting  on  a  mighty  se- 
vere look:  "I  did  not  bring  you  here  with  me  to  ask  ques- 
tions;" and  without  holding  further  argument,  he  began 
saying  the  queer  words,  which  had  the  power  of  passing 
him  through  the  key-hole  as  free  as  air,  and  which  Billy 
thought  himself  mighty  clever  to  be  able  to  say  after  him. 

In  they  both  went;  and  for  the  better  viewing  the  com- 
pany, the  little  man  perched  himself  up  as  nimbly  as  a  cock- 
sparrow  upon  one  of  the  big  beams  which  went  across  the 
house  over  all  their  heads,  and  Billy  did  the  same  upon 


MASTER  AND  MAN.  75 

another  facing  him;  but  not  being  much  accustomed  to 
roosting  in  such  a  place,  his  legs  hung  clown  as  untidy  as 
may  be,  and  it  was  quite  clear  he  had  not  taken  pattern 
after  the  way  in  which  the  little  man  had  bundled  himself 
up  together.  If  the  little  man  had  been  a  tailor  all  his  life, 
he  could  not  have  sat  more  contentedly  upon  his  haunches. 
There  they  were,  both  master  and  man,  looking  down 
upon  the  fun  that  was  going  forward — and  under  them 
were  the  priest  and  piper — and  the  father  of  Darby  Riley, 
with  Darby's  two  brothers  and  his  uncle's  son — and  there 
were  both  the  father  and  the  mother  of  Bridget  Rooney, 
and  proud  enough  the  old  couple  were  that  night  of  their 
daughter,  as  good  right  they  had — and  her  four  sisters  with 
bran  new  ribands  in  their  caps,  and  her  three  brothers  all 
looking  as  clean  and  as  clever  as  any  three  boys  in  Mun- 
ster — and  there  were  uncles  and  aunts,  and  gossips  and 
cousins  enough  besides  to  make  a  full  house  of  it — and 
plenty  was  there  to  eat  and  drink  on  the  table  for  every 
one  of  them,  if  they  had  been  double  the  number. 

Now  it  happened,  just  as  Mrs.  Rooney  had  helped  his 
reverence  to  the  first  cut  of  the  pig's  head  which  was 
placed  before  her,  beautifully  bolstered  up  with  white  sa- 
voys, that  the  bride  gave  a  sneeze  which  made  every  one 
at  table  start,  but  not  a  soul  said  "  God  bless  us."  All 
thinking  that  the  priest  would  have  done  so,  as  he  ought 
if  he  had  done  his  duty,  no  one  wished  to  take  the  word 
out  of  his  mouth,  which  unfortunately  was  pre-occupied 
with  pig's  head  and  greens.  And  after  a  moment's  pause, 
the  fun  and  merriment  of  the  bridal  feast  went  on  without 
the  pious  benediction. 

Of  this  circumstance  both  Billy  and  his  master  were  no 
inattentive  spectators  from  their  exalted  stations.  "Ha!" 
exclaimed  the  little  man,  throwing  one  leg  from  under  him 
with  a  joyous  flourish,  and  his  eye  twinkled  with  a  strange 
light,  whilst  his  eyebrows  became  elevated  into  the  curva- 
ture of  Gothic  arches — ^'  Ha!"  said  he,  leering  down  at  the 
•bride,  and  then  up  at  Billy,  "  1  have  half  of  her  now,  surely. 
Let  her  sneeze  but  twice  more,  and  she  is  mine,  in  spite  of 
priest,  mass-book,  and  Darby  Riley." 

Again  the  fair  Bridget  sneezed;  but  it  was  so  gently,  and 
she  blushed  so  much,  that  few  except  the  little  man  took  or 


76  MASTER  AND  MAN. 

seemed  to  take  any  notice:  and  no  one  thought  of  saying 
''  God  bless  us." 

Billy  all  this  time  regarded  the  poor  girl  with  a  most 
rueful  expression  of  countenance;  for  he  could  not  help 
thinking  what  a  terrible  thing  it  was  for  a  nice  young  girl 
of  nineteen,  with  large  blue  eyes,  transparent  skin,  and 
dimpled  cheeks,  suffused  with  health  and  joy,  to  be  obliged 
to  marry  an  ugl)^  little  bit  of  a  man  who  was  a  thousand 
years  old,  barring  a  day. 

At  this  critical  moment  the  bride  gave  a  third  sneeze, 
and  Billy  roared  out  with  all  his  might,  "God  save  us!" 
Whether  this  exclamation  resulted  from  his  soliloquy,  or 
from  the  mere  force  of  habit,  he  never  could  tell  exactly 
himself;  but  no  sooner  was  it  uttered,  than  the  little  man, 
his  face  glowing  with  rage  and  disappointment,  sprung  from 
the  beam  on  which  he  had  perched  himself,  and  shrieking 
out  in  the  shrill  voice  of  a  cracked  bagpipe,  "I  discharge 
you  my  service,  Billy  Mac  Daniel — take  that  for  your 
wages,"  gave  poor  Billy  a  most  furious  kick  in  the  back, 
which  sent  his  unfortunate  servant  sprawling  upon  his  face 
and  hands  right  in  the  middle  of  the  supper  table. 

If  Billy  was  astonished,  how  much  more  so  was  every 
one  of  the  company  into  which  he  was  thrown  with  so  little 
ceremony;  but  when  they  heard  his  story.  Father  Cooney 
laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  married  the  young  cou- 
ple out  of  hand  with  all  speed;  and  Billy  Mac  Daniel 
danced  the  Rinka  at  their  wedding,  and  plenty  did  he 
drink  at  it  too,  which  was  what  he  thought  more  of  than 
dancing. 


77 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE. 


XL 


"Now  tell  me,  Molly/'  said  Mr.  Coote  to  Molly  Cogan, 
as  he  met  her  on  the  road  one  day,  close  to  one  of  the  old 
gateways  of  Kilmalloek,*  "did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Clu- 


ricaune 


?" 


"Is  it  the  Cluricaune?  why,  then,  sure  I  did, often  and 
often;  many's  the  time  I  heard  my  father,  rest  his  soul! 
tell  about  'em." 

"But  did  you  ever  see  one,  Molly,  yourself?" 

"Och!  no,  I  never  see  one  in  my  life;  but  my  grandfa- 
ther, that's  my  father's  father,  you  know,  he  see  one,  one 
time,  and  caught  him  too." 

"Caught  him!  Oh!  Molly,  tell  me  hovv?'^ 

"Why,  then,  I'll  tell  you.  My  grandfather,  you  see, 
was  out  there  above  in  the  bog,  drawing  home  turf,  and 
the  poor  old  mare  was  tired  after  her  day's  work,  and  the 
old  man  went  out  to  the  stable  to  look  after  her,  and  to  see 
if  she  was  eating  her  hay;  and  when  he  came  to  the  stable 
door  there,  my  dear,  he  heard  something  hammering,  ham- 
mering, hammering,  just  for  all  the  world  like  a  shoemaker 
making  a  shoe,  and  whistling  all  the  time  the  prettiest  tune 
he  ever  heard  in  his  whole  life  before.  Well,  m}^  grand- 
father, he  thought  it  was  the  Cluricaune,  and  he  said  to  him- 
self, says  he,  ^I'U  catch  you,  if  I  can,  and  then,  I'll  have 
money  enough  always.'  So  he  opened  the  door  very 
quietly,  and  didn't  make  a  bit  of  noise  in  the  world  that 
ever  was  heard;  and  looked  all  about,  but  the  never  a  bit 
of  the  little  man  he  could  see  anywhere,  but  he  heard  him 
hammering  and  whistling,  and  so  he  looked  and  looked, 
till  at  last  he  see  the  little  fellow;  and  where  was  he,  do 
you  think,  but  in  the  girth  under  the  mare;  and  there  he 
was  with  his  little  bit  of  an  apron  on  him,  and  hammer  in 

*  "Kilmallock  seemed  to  me  like  the  court  of  the  Queen  of  Si- 
lence."— O'  Keefe's  Recollections. 


78  THE  LITTLE  SHOE. 

his  hand,  and  a  little  red  nightcap  on  his  head,  and  he 
making  a  shoe;  and  he  was  so  busy  with  his  work,  and  he 
was  hammering  and  whistling  so  loud,  that  he  never  mind- 
ed my  grandfather  till  he  caught  him  fast  in  his  hand. 
'Faith  I  have  you  now,'  says  he,  ^and  I'll  never  let  you  go 
till  I  get  your  purse — that^s  what  I  won't;  so  give  it  here 
to  me  at  once,  now.' — 'Stop,  stop,'  says  the  Cluricaune, 
'stop,  stop,'  says  he,  'till  I  get  it  for  you.'  So  my  grand- 
father, like  a  fool,  you  see,  opened  his  hand  a  little,  and  the 
little  fellow  jumped  away  laughing,  and  he  never  saw  him 
any  more,  and  the  never  the  bit  of  the  purse  did  he  get, 
only  the  Cluricaune  left  his  little  shoe  that  he  was  making; 
and  my  grandfather  was  mad  enough  angry  with  himself 
for  letting  him  go;  but  he  had  the  shoe  all  his  life,  and  my 
own  mother  told  me  she  often  see  it,  and  had  it  in  her 
hand,  and  'twas  the  prettiest  little  shoe  she  ever  saw." 

''And  did  you  see  it  yourself,  Molly?" 

"Oh!  no,  my  dear,  it  was  lost  long  afore  I  was  born; 
but  my  mother  told  me  about  it  often  and  often  enough." 


'"  The  main  point  of  distinction  between  the  Cluricaune  and  the 
Shefro,  arises  from  the  sottish  and  solitary  habits  of  the  former,  who 
are  rarely  found  in  troops  or  communities. 

The  Cluricaune  of  the  county  of  Cork,  the  Luricaune  of  Kerry,  and 
the  Lurigadaune  of  Tipperary,  appear  to  be  the  same  as  the  Lepre- 
chan  or  Leprochaune  of  Leinster,  and  the  Logherry-man  of  Ulster; 
and  these  words  are  probably  all  provincialisms  of  the  Irish  for  a 
pigmy. 

It  is  possible,  and  is  in  some  measure  borne  out  by  the  text  of  one 
of  the  preceding  stories  [IX.],  that  the  word  luacharman  is  merely 
an  Anglo-Irish  induction,  compounded  of  (a  rush,)  and  the  English 
word,  man. — A  rushy  man, — that  may  be,  a  man  of  the  height  of  a 
rush,  or  a  being  who  dwelt  among  rushes,  that  is,  unfrequented  or 
boggy  places. 

The  following  dialogue  is  said  to  have  taken  place  in  an  Irish  court 
of  justice,  upon  the  witness  having  used  the  word  Leprochaune: — 

Court. — Pray  what  is  a  leprochaune'?  the  law  knows  no  such  cha- 
racter or  designation. 

Witness. — My  lord,  it  is  a  little  counsellor  man  in  the  fairies,  or 
an  attorney  that  robs  them  all,  and  he  always  carries  a  purse  that  is 
full  of  money,  and  if  you  see  him  and  keep  your  eyes  on  him,  and  that 
you  never  turn  them  aside,  he  cannot  get  away,  and  if  you  catch  him 
he  gives  you  the  purse  to  let  him  go,  and  then  you're  as  rich  as  a  Jew, 

Court. — Did  you  ever  know  of  any  one  that  caught  a  Lepro- 
chaune?    I  wish  I  could  catch  one. 

Witness. — Yes,  my  lord,  there  was  one— 
■     Cowr^— That  will  do.  : 

'  With  respect  to  "money  matters,"  there  appears  to  be  a  strong 
resemblance  between  the  ancient  Roman  Incubus  and  the  Irish  Cluri- 
caune.— "Sed  quomodo  dicunt,  ego  nihil  scio,  sed  audivi,  quomodo 
incuboni  pileum  rapuisset  et  thesaurum  invenit,"  are  the  words  of 
Petronius. — See,  for  farther  arguments  in  support  of  identity  of  the 
two  spirits,  the  Brothers  Grimm's  Essay  on  the  Nature  of  the  Elves, 
prefixed  to  their  translation  of  this  work,  under  the  head  of  "Ancient 
Testimonies." 

"Old  German  and  Northern  poems  contain  numerous  accounts  of 
the  skill  of  the  dwarfs  in  curious  smith's-work." — "The  Irish  Cluri- 
caune is  heard  hammering;  he  is  particularly  fond  of  making  shoes, 
but  these  were  in  ancient  times  made  of  metal  (in  the  old  Northern 
language  a  shoe-maker  is  called  a  shoe-smith;)  and,  singularly  enough, 
the  wights  in  a  German  tradition  manifest  the  same  propensity;  for, 
whatever  work  the  shoe-maker  has  been  able  to  cut  out  in  the  day, 
they  finish  with  incredible  quickness  during  the  night." 

The  Brothers  Grimm, 


LEGENDS    OF   THE   BANSHEE 


Who  sits  upon  the  heath  forlorn, 
With  robe  so  free  and  tresses  torn? 
Anon  she  pours  a  harrowing  strain, 
And  then — she  sits  all  mute  again! 
Now  peals  the  wild  funereal  cry — 
And  now— it  sinks  into  a  sigh." 


OURAWNS- 


THE   BANSHEE* 


XII. 

The  Reverend  Charles  Bunworth  was  rector  of  Butte* 
vant,  in  the  county  of  Cork,  about  the  middle  of  the  last 
century.  He  was  a  man  of  unaffected  piety,  and  of  sound 
learning;  pure  in  heart,  and  benevolent  in  intention.  By 
the  rich  he  was  respected,  and  by  the  poor  beloved;  nor 
did  a  difference  of  creed  prevent  their  looking  up  to  ^Uhe 
minister^'  (so  was  Mr.  Bunworth  called  by  them)  in  mat- 
ters of  difficulty  and  in  seasons  of  distress,  confident  of  re- 
ceiving from  him  the  advice  and  assistance  that  a  father 
would  afford  to  his  children.  He  was  the  friend  and  the 
benefactor  of  the  surrounding  country — to  him,  from  the 
neighbouring  town  of  Newmarket,  came  both  Curran  and 


82  LEGENDS  OF  THE  BANSHEE. 

Yelverton  for  advice  and  instruction,  previous  to  their  en- 
trance at  Dublin  College.  Young,  indigent  and  inexpe- 
rienced, these  afterwards  eminent  men  received  from  him, 
in  addition  to  the  advice  they  sought,  pecuniary  aid;  and 
the  brilliant  career  which  was  theirs,  justified  the  discri- 
mination of  the  giver. 

But  what  extended  the  fame  of  Mr.  Bunworth,  far  be- 
yond the  limits  of  the  parishes  adjacent  to  his  own,  was 
his  performance  on  the  Irish  harp,  and  his  hospitable  re- 
ception and  entertainment  of  the  poor  harpers  who  travelled 
from  house  to  house  about  the  country.  Grateful  to  their 
patron,  these  itinerant  minstrels  sang  his  praises  to  the 
tingling  accompaniment  of  their  harps,  invoking  in  return 
for  his  bounty  abundant  blessings  on  his  white  head,  and 
celebrating  in  tlieir  rude  verses  the  blooming  charms  of  his 
daughters,  Elizabeth  and  Mary.  It  was  all  these  poor  fel- 
lows could  do;  but  who  can  doubt  that  their  gratitude  was 
sincere,  when,  at  the  time  of  Mr.  Bunworth's  death,  no 
less  than  fifteen  harps  were  deposited  in  the  loft  of  his 
granary,  bequeathed  to  him  by  the  last  members  of  a  race 
which  has  now  ceased  to  exist.  Trifling,  no  doubt,  in  in- 
trinsic value  were  these  relics,  yet  there  is  something  in  gifts 
of  the  heart  that  merits  preservation ;  and  it  is  to  be  re- 
gretted that,  when  he  died,  these  harps  vs'ere  broken  up 
one  after  the  other,  and  used  as  fire-wood  by  an  ignorant 
follower  of  the  family,  who,  on  a  removal  to  Cork  for  a  tem- 
porary change  of  scene,  was  left  in  charge  of  the  house. 

The  circumstances  attending  the  death  of  Mr.  Bunworth 
may  be  doubted  by  some;  but  there  are  still  living  credible 
witnesses  who  declare  their  authenticity,  and  who  can  be 
produced  to  attest  most,  if  not  all  of  the  following  particu- 
lars. 

About  a  week  previous  to  his  dissolution,  and  early  in 
the  evening  a  noise  was  heard  at  the  hall-door  resembling 
the  shearing  of  sheep;  but  at  the  time  no  particular  atten- 
tion was  paid  to  it.  It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock  the  same 
night,  when  Kavanagh,  the  herdsman,  returned  from  Mal- 
low, whither  he  had  been  sent  in  the  afternoon  for  some 
medicine,  and  was  observed  by  Miss  Bunworth,  to  whom 
he  delivered  the  parcel,  to  be  much  agitated.  At  this  time, 
it  must  be  observed,  her  father  was  by  no  means  consi- 
dered in  danger. 


LEGENDS  OP  THE  BANSHEE.  S3 

*<What  is  the  matter,  Kavanagh?"  asked  Miss  Bunworth: 
but  the  poor  fellow,  with  a  bewildered  look,  only  uttered, 
**The  master,  Miss — the  master — he  is  going  from  us;" 
and,  overcome  with  real  grief,  he  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

Miss  Bunworth,  who  was  a  woman  of  strong  nerve,  in- 
quired if  any  thing  he  had  learned  in  Mallow  induced  hirn 
to  suppose  that  her  father  was  worse.  "  No,  Miss,'^  said 
Kavanagh;  "  it  was  not  in  Mallow " 

"Kavanagh,''  said  Miss  Bunworth,  with  that  stateliness 
of  manner  for  which  she  is  said  to  have  been  remarkable, 
"I  fear  you  have  been  drinking,  which,  I  must  say,  I  did 
not  expect  at  such  a  time  as  the  present,  when  it  was  your 
duty  to  have  kept  yourself  sober; — I  thought  you  might 
have  been  trusted: — what  should  we  have  done  if  you  had 
broken  the  medicine  bottle,  or  lost  it?  for  the  doctor  said 
it  was  of  the  greatest  consequence  that  your  master  should 
take  the  medicine  to-night.  But  I  will  speak  to  370U  in  the 
morning,  when  you  are  in  a  fitter  state  to  understand  what 
I  say.'^ 

Kavanagh  looked  up  with  a  stupidity  of  aspect  which 
did  not  serve  to  remove  the  impression  of  his  being  drunk, 
as  his  eyes  appeared  heavy  and  dull  after  the  flood  of  tears; 
— but  his  voice  was  not  that  of  an  intoxicated  person. 

"  Miss,"  said  he,  "as  I  hope  to  receive  mercy  hereafter, 
neither  bit  nor  sup  has  passed  my  lips  since  1  left  this 
house;  but  the  master " 

"  Speak  softly,"  said  Miss  Bunworth;  "he  sleeps,  and 
is  going  on  as  well  as  we  could  expect." 

"  Praise  be  to  God  for  that,  any  way,"  replied  Kavanagh; 
"but  oh!  Miss,  he  is  going  from  us  surely — we  will  lose 
him — the  master — we  will  lose  him,  we  will  lose  him!" 
and  he  wrung  his  hands  together. 

"What  is  it  you  mean,  Kavanagh?"  asked  Miss  Bun- 
worth. 

"Is  it  mean?"  said  Kavanagh:  "the  Banshee  has  come 
for  him,  Miss,  and  ^tis  not  I  alone  who  have  heard  her." 

"'Tis  an  idle  superstition,"  said  Miss  Bunworth. 

"May  be  so,"  replied  Kavanagh,  as  if  the  words  ^idle 
superstition'  only  sounded  upon  his  ear  without  reaching 
his  mind — "May  be  so,"  he  continued;  "but  as  I  came 
through  the  glen  of  Ballybeg,  she  was  along  with  me, 


84  LEGENDS  OF  THE  BANSHEE. 

keening,  and  screeching,  and  clapping  her  hands,  by  my 
side,  every  step  of  the  way,  with  her  long  white  hair  falling 
about  her  shoulders,  and  I  could  hear  her  repeat  the  master's 
name  every  now  and  then,  as  plain  as  ever  I  heard  it. 
When  I  came  to  the  old  abbey,  she  parted  from  me  there, 
and  turned  into  the  pigeon-field  next  the  berrin  ground, 
and  folding  her  cloak  about  her,  down  she  sat  under  the 
tree  that  was  struck  by  the  lightning,  and  began  keening 
so  bitterly,  that  it  went  through  one's  heart  to  hear  it." 

"Kavanagh,"  said  Miss  Bunworth,  who  had,  however, 
listened  attentively  to  this  remarkable  relation,  "  my  father 
is,  I  believe,  better;  and  I  hope  will  himself  soon  be  up  and 
able  to  convince  you  that  all  this  is  but  your  own  fancy; 
nevertheless,  I  charge  you  not  to  mention  what  you  have 
told  me,  for  there  is  no  occasion  to  frighten  your  fellow- 
servants  with  the  story." 

Mr.  Bunworth  gradually  declined;  but  nothing  particular 
occurred  until  the  night  previous  to  his  death:  that  night 
both  his  daughters,  exhausted  with  continued  attendance 
and  watching,  were  prevailed  upon  to  seek  some  repose; 
and  an  elderly  lady,  a  near  relative  and  friend  of  the  family, 
remained  by  the  bedside  of  their  father.  The  old  gentle- 
man then  lay  in  the  parlour,  where  he  had  been  in  the 
mornmg  removed  at  his  own  request,  fancying  the  change 
would  afford  him  relief;  and  the  head  of  his  bed  was  placed 
close  to  the  window.  In  a  room  adjoining  sat  some  male 
friends,  and,  as  usual  on  like  occasions  of  illness,  in  the 
kitchen  mony  of  the  followers  of  the  family  had  assembled. 

The  night  was  serene  and  moonlit-— the  sick  man  slept — 
and  nothing  broke  the  stillness  of  their  melancholy  watch, 
when  the  little  party  in  the  room  adjoining  the  parlour,  the 
door  of  which  stood  open,  was  suddenly  roused  by  a  sound 
at  the  window  near  the  bed:  a  rose  tree  grew  outside  the 
window,  so  close  as  to  touch  the  glass;  this  was  forced  aside 
with  some  noise,  and  a  low  moaning  was  heard,  accompa- 
nied by  clapping  of  hands,  as  if  of  a  female  in  deep  affliction. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  sound  proceeded  from  a  person  holding 
her  mouth  close  to  the  window.  The  lad}^  who  sat  by  the 
bedside  of  Mr.  Bunworth  went  into  the  adjoining  room,  and 
in  a  tone  of  alarm,  inquired  of  the  gentlemen  there,  if  they 
had  heard  the  Banshee?     Skeptical  of  supernatural  appear- 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  BANSHEE.  85 

ances,  two  of  them  rose  hastily  and  went  out  to  discover 
the  cause  of  these  sounds,  which  they  also  had  distinctly 
heard.  They  walked  all  around  the  house,  examining 
every  spot  of  ground,  particularly  near  the  window  from 
whence  the  voice  had  proceeded;  the  bed  of  earth  beneath, 
in  which  the  rose  tree  was  planted,  had  been  recently  dug, 
and  the  print  of  a  footstep — if  the  tree  had  been  forced  aside 
by  mortal  hand — would  have  inevitably  remained ;  but  they 
could  perceive  no  such  impression;  and  an  unbroken  still- 
ness reigned  without.  Hoping  to  dispel  the  mystery,  they 
continued  their  search  anxiously  along  the  road,  from  the 
straightness  of  which  and  the  lightness  of  the  night,  they 
were  enabled  to  see  some  distance  around  them;  but  all 
w^as  silent  and  deserted,  and  they  returned  surprised  and 
disappointed.  How  much  more  then  were  they  astonished 
at  learning  that  the  whole  time  of  their  absence,  those  who 
remained  within  the  house  had  heard  the  moaning  and 
clapping  of  hands  even  louder  and  more  distinct  than  before 
they  had  gone  out;  and  no  sooner  was  the  door  of  the  room 
closed  on  them,  than  they  again  heard  the  same  mournful 
sounds!  Every  succeeding  hour  the  sick  man  became 
worse,  and  as  the  first  glimpse  of  the  morning  appeared, 
Mr.  Bunworth  expired. 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  BANSHEE. 

XHI. 

The  family  of  Mac  Carthy  have  for  some  generations 
possessed  a  small  estate  in  the  county  of  Tipperary.  They 
are  the  descendants  of  a  race,  once  numerous  and  powerful 
in  the  south  of  Ireland;  and  though  it  is  probable  that  the 
property  they  at  present  hold  is  no  part  of  ihe  large  pos 
sessions  of  their  ancestors,  yet  the  district  in  which  they 
live  is  so  connected  with  the  name  of  Mac  Carthy  by  those 
associations  which  are  never  forgotten  in  Ireland,  that  they 
have  preserved  with  all  ranks  a  sort  of  influence  much 
greater  than  that  which  their  fortune  or  connexions  could 
otherwise  give  them.  Tiiey  are,  like  most  of  this  class,  of 
8 


S6  LEGENDS  OF  THE  BANSHEE. 

the  Roman  Catholic  persuasron,  to  which  they  adhere  with 
somewhat  of  the  pride  of  ancestry,  blended  with  a  some- 
thing, call  it  what  you  will,  whether  bigotry,  or  a  sense  of 
wrong,  arising  out  of  repeated  diminutions  of  their  family 
possessions,  during  the  more  rigorous  periods  of  the  penal 
laws.  Being  an  old  family,  and  especially  being  an  old 
Catholic  family,  they  have  of  course  their  Banshee;  and  the 
circumstances  under  w^hich  the  appearance,  which  I  shall 
relate,  of  this  mysterious  harbinger  of  death,  took  place, 
were  told  me  by  an  old  lady,  a  near  connexion  of  theirs, 
who  knew  many  of  the  parties  concerned,  and  who,  though 
not  deficient  in  understanding  or  education,  cannot  to  this 
day  be  brought  to  give  a  decisive  opinion  as  to  the  truth 
or  authenticity  of  the  story.  The  plain  inference  to  be 
drawn  from  this  is,  that  she  believes  it,  though  she  does 
not  own  it;  and  as  she  was  a  contemporary  of  the  persons 
concerned — as  she  lieard  the  account  from  many  persons 
about  the  same  period,  all  concurring  in  the  important  par- 
ticulars— as  some  of  her  authorities  were  themselves  actors 
in  the  scene — and  as  none  of  the  parties  were  interested  in 
speaking  what  was  false;  I  think  we  have  about  as  good 
evidence  that  the  whole  is  undeniably  true  as  we  have  of 
many  narratives  of  modern  history,  which  I  could  name, 
and  which  many  grave  and  sober-minded  people  would 
deem  it  very  great  pyrrhonism  to  question.  This,  how- 
ever, is  a  point  which  it  is  not  my  province  to  determine. 
People  who  deal  out  stories  of  this  sort  must  be  content  to 
act  like  certain  young  politicians,  who  tell  very  freely  to 
their  friends  what  they  hear  at  a  great  man's  table;  not 
guilty  of  the  impertinence  of  weighing  the  doctrines,  and 
leaving  it  to  their  hearers  to  understand  them  in  any  sense, 
or  in  no  sense,  just  as  tliey  may  please. 

Charles  Mac  Carthy  was,  in  the  year  1749,  the  only  sur- 
viving son  of  a  very  numerous  family.  His  father  died 
when  he  was  little  more  than  twenty,  leaving  him  the  Mac 
Carthy  estate,  not  much  encumbered,  considering  that  it 
was  an  Irish  one.  Charles  was  gay,  handsome,  unfettered 
either  by  poverty,  a  father,  or  guardians,  and  therefore  was 
not  at  the  age  of  one-and-twenty,  a  pattern  of  regularity 
and  virtue.  In  plain  terms,  he  was  an  exceedingly  dissi- 
pated— I  fear  I  may  say  debauched  young  n)an.     His  com> 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  BANSHEE.  87 

panions  were,  as  may  be  supposed,  of  the  higher  classes  of 
the  youth  in  his  neighbourhood,  and,  in  general,  of  those 
whose  fortunes  were  larger  than  his  own,  whose  dispositions 
to  pleasure  were  therefore  under  still  less  restrictions,  and 
in  whose  example  he  found  at  once  an  incentive  and  an 
apology  for  his  irregularities.  Besides,  Ireland,  a  place  to 
this  day  not  very  remarkable  for  the  coolness  and  steadi- 
ness  of  its  youth,  was  then  one  of  the  cheapest  countries  in 
the  world  in  most  of  those  articles  which  money  supplies 
for  the  indulgence  of  the  passions.  The  odious  exciseman, 
with  his  portentous  book  in  one  hand,  his  unrelenting  pen 
held  in  the  other,  or  stuck  beneath  his  hat-band,  and  the 
ink-boitle  ('black  em.blem  of  the  informer')  dangling  from 
his  waist-coat-button — went  not  then  from  ale-house  to  ale- 
house, denouncing  all  those  patriotic  dealers  in  spirit,  who 
preferred  selling  whisky,  which  had  nothing  to  do  with 
English  laws  (but  to  elude  them,)  to  retailing  that  poison- 
ous liquor,  which  derived  its  name  from  the  British  "par- 
liament," that  compelled  its  circulation  among  a  reluctant 
people.  Or  if  the  ganger — recording  angel  of  the  law — 
wrote  down  the  peccadillo  of  a  publican,  he  dropped  a  tear 
upon  the  word,  and  blotted  it  out  forever!  For,  welcome 
to  the  tables  of  their  hospfitable  neighbours,  the  guardians  of 
the  excise,  where  they  existed  at  all,  scrupled  to  abridge 
those  luxuries  which  they  freely  shared;  and  thus  the  com- 
petition in  the  market  between  the  smuggler,  who  incurred 
little  hazard,  and  the  personage  ycleped  fair  trader,  who 
enjoyed  little  protection,  made  Ireland  a  land  flowing,  not 
merely  with  milk  and  honey,  but  with  whisky  and  wine. 
In  the  enjoyments  supplied  by  these,  and  in  the  many 
kindred  pleasures  to  which  frail  youth  is  but  too  prone, 
Charles  Mac  Carthy  indulged  to  such  a  degree,  that  just 
about  the  time  when  he  had  completed  his  four-and-twen- 
tieth  year,  after  a  week  of  great  excesses,  he  was  seized 
with  a  violent  fever,  which,  from  its  malignity,  and  the 
weakness  of  his  frame,  left  scarcely  a  liope  of  his  recovery. 
His  mother,  who  had  at  first  made  many  efforts  to  check 
his  vices,  and  at  last  had  been  obliged  to  look  on  at  his  ra- 
pid progress  to  ruin  in  silent  despair,  watched  day  and 
night  at  his  pillow.  The  anguish  of  parental  feeling  was 
blended  with  that  still  deeper  misery  which  those  only 


88  LEGENDS  OF  THE  BANSHEE. 

know  who  have  striven  hard  to  rear  in  virtue  and  piety  a 
beloved  and  favourite  child;  have  found  him  grow  up  all 
that  their  hearts  could  desire,  until  he  reached  manhood; 
and  then,  when  their  pride  was  highest,  and  their  hopes 
almost  ended  in  the  fulfilment  of  their  fondest  expectations, 
have  seen  this  idol  of  their  affections  plunge  headlong  into 
a  course  of  reckless  profligacy,  and,  after  a  rapid  career  of 
vice,  hang  upon  the  verge  of  eternity,  without  the  leisure 
for,  or  the  power  of,  repentance.  Fervently  she  prayed 
that,  if  his  life  could  not  be  spared,  at  least  the  delirium, 
which  continued  with  increasing  violence  from  the  first  few 
hours  of  his  disorder,  might  vanish  before  death,  and  leave 
enough  of  light  and  of  calm  for  making  his  peace  with  of- 
fended Heaven.  After  several  days,  however,  nature 
seemed  quite  exhausted,  and  he  sunk  into  a  state  too  like 
death  to  be  mistaken  for  the  repose  of  sleep.  His  face  had 
that  pale,  glossy,  marble  look,  which  is  in  general  so  sure 
a  symptom  that  life  has  left  its  tenement  of  clay.  His  eyes 
were  closed  and  sunk;  the  lids  having  that  compressed  and 
stiffened  appearance  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  some 
friendly  hand  had  done  its  last  office.  The  lips,  half-closed 
and  perfectly  ashy,  discovered  just  so  much  of  the  teeth  as 
to  give  to  the  features  of  death  their  most  ghastly,  but  most 
impressive  look.  He  lay  upon  his  back,  with  his  hands 
stretched  beside,  quite  motionless;  and  his  distracted  mo- 
ther, after  repeated  trials,  could  discover  not  the  least  symp- 
tom of  animation.  The  medical  man  who  attended,  having 
tried  the  usual  modes  for  ascertaining  the  presence  of  life, 
declared  at  last  his  opinion  that  it  was  flown,  and  prepared 
to  depart  from  the  house  of  mourning.  His  horse  was  seen 
to  come  to  the  door.  A  crowd  of  people  who  were  collect- 
ed before  the  windows,  or  scattered  in  groups  on  the  lawn 
in  front,  gathered  round  when  the  door  opened.  These 
were  tenants,  fosterers,  and  poor  relations  of  the  family, 
with  others  attracted  by  affection,  or  by  that  interest  which 
partakes  of  curiosity,  but  is  something  more,  and  which  col- 
lects the  lower  ranks  round  a  house  where  a  human  being 
is  in  his  passage  to  another  world.  They  saw  the  profes- 
sional man  come  out  from  the  hall  door  and  approach  his 
horse,  and  while  slowly,  and  with  a  melancholy  air,  he 
prepared  to  mount,  they  clustered  round  him  with  inquiring 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  BANSHEE.  89 

and  wishful  looks.  Not  a  word  was  spoken ;  but  their  mean- 
ing could  not  be  misunderstood;  and  the  physician,  when 
he  had  got  into  his  saddle,  and  while  the  servant  was  still 
holding  the  bridle,  as  if  to  delay  him,  and  was  looking 
anxiously  at  his  face,  as  if  expecting  that  he  would  relieve 
the  general  suspense,  shook  his  head,  and  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "It's  all  over,  James;"  and  moved  slowly  away. 
The  moment  he  had  spoken,  the  women  present,  who  were 
very  numerous,  uttered  a  shrill  cry,  which,  having  been 
sustained  for  about  half  a  minute,  fell  suddenly  into  a  full, 
loud,  continued  and  discordant  but  plaintive  wailing^ above 
which  occasionally  were  heard  the  deep  sounds  of  a  man's 
voice,  sometimes  in  broken  sobs,  sometimes  in  more  dis- 
tinct exclamations  of  sorrow.  This  was  Charles's  foster- 
brother,  who  moved  about  in  the  crowd,  now  clapping  his 
hands,  now  rubbing  them  together  in  an  aojon}^  of  grief. 
The  poor  fellow  had  been  Charles's  playmate  and  compa- 
nion when  a  bo}^,  and  afterwards  his  servant;  had  always 
been  distinguished  by  his  peculiar  regard,  and  loved  his 
young  master,  as  much,  at  least,  as  he  did  his  own  life. 

When  Mrs.  Mae  Carthy  became  convinced  that  the  blow 
was  indeed  struck,  and  that  her  beloved  son  was  sent  to  his 
last  account,  even  in  the  blossoms  of  his  sin,  she  remained 
for  some  time  gazing  with  fixedness  upon  his  cold  features; 
then,  as  if  something  had  suddenly  touched  the  string  of 
her  tenderest  affections,  tear  after  tear  trickled  down  her 
cheeks,  pale  with  anxiety  and  watching.  Still  she  conti- 
nued looking  at  her  son,  apparently  unconscious  that  she 
was  weeping,  without  once  lifting  her  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes,  until  reminded  of  the  sad  duti-es  which  tlie  custom  of 
the  country  imposed  upon  her,  by  the  crowd  of  females 
belonging  to  the  better  class  of  the  peasantry,  who  now, 
crying  audibly,  nearly  filled  the  apartment.  She  then 
withdrew,  to  give  directions  for  the  ceremon}^  of  waking, 
and  for  supplying  the  numerous  visiters  of  all  ranks  with 
the  refreshments  usual  on  these  melancholy  occasions. 
Though  her  voice  was  scarcely  heard,  and  though  no  one 
saw  her  but  the  servants  and  one  or  two  old  followers  of 
the  family,  w4io  assisted  her  in  the  necessary  arrangements, 
every  thing  was  conducted  with  the  greatest  regularity; 
and  though  she  made  no  effort  to  check  her  sorrows,  they 


90  LEGENDS  OF  THE  BANSHEE. 

never  once  suspended  her  attention,  now  more  than  ever 
required  to  preserve  order  in  her  household,  which,  in  this 
season  of  calamity,  but  for  her  would  have  been  all  confu- 
sion. 

The  night  was  pretty  far  advanced:  the  boisterous  la- 
mentations which  had  prevailed  during  part  of  the  day  in 
and  about  the  house  had  given  place  to  a  solemn  and  mourn- 
ful stillness;  and  Mrs.  Mac  Carthy,  whose  heart,  notwith- 
standing her  long  fatigue  and  watching,  was  yet  too  sore 
for  sleep,  was  kneeling  in  fervent  prayer  in  a  chamber  ad- 
joining that  of  her  son: — suddenly  her  devotions  were  dis- 
turbed by  an  unusual  noise,  proceeding  from  the  persons 
who  were  watching  round  the  body.  First,  there  was  a 
low  murmur — then  all  was  silent,  as  if  the  movements  of 
those  in  the  chamber  were  checked  by  a  sudden  panic — 
and  then  a  loud  cry  of  terror  burst  from  all  within: — the 
door  of  the  chamber  was  thrown  open,  and  all  who  were 
not  overturned  in  the  press  rushed  wildly  into  the  passage 
which  led  to  the  stairs,  and  into  which  Mrs.  Mac  Carthy's 
room  opened.  Mrs.  Mac  Carthy  made  her  way  through 
the  crowd  into  her  son's  chamber,  where  she  found  him 
sitting  up  in  the  bed,  and  looking  vacantly  around  like  one 
risen  from  the  grave.  The  glare  thrown  upon  his  sunk 
features  and  thin  lathy  frame  gave  an  unearthly  horror  to 
his  whole  aspect.  Mrs.  Mac  Carthy  was  a  woman  of  some 
firmness;  but  she  was  a  woman,  and  not  quite  free  from  the 
superstitions  of  her  country.  She  dropped  on  her  knees, 
and,  clasping  her  hands,  began  to  pray  aloud.  The  form 
before  her  moved  only  its  lips  and  barely  uttered,  ^'Mo- 
ther;"— but  though  the  pale  lips  moved,  as  if  there  was  a 
design  to  finish  the  sentence,  the  tongue  refused  its  office. 
Mrs.  Mac  Carthy  sprung  forward,  and  catching  the  arm  of 
her  son,  exclaimed,  "Speak!  in  the  name  of  God  and  his 
saints,  speak!  are  you  alive?" 

He  turned  to  her  slowly,  and  said,  speaking  still  with 

apparent  difficulty,  "Yes,  my  mother,  alive,  and But 

sit  down  and  collect  yourself;  I  have  that  to  tell,  which  will 
astonish  3^ou  still  more  than  what  you  have  seen."  He 
leaned  back  on  his  pillow,  and  while  his  mother  remained 
kneeling  by  the  bed-side,  holding  one  of  his  hands  clasped 
in  hers,  and  gazing  on  him  with  the  look  of  one  who  dis- 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  BANSHEE.  91 

trusted  all  her  senses,  he  proceeded: — "do  not  interrupt 
me  until  I  have  done.  I  wish  to  speak  while  the  excitement 
of  returning  life  is  upon  me,  as  I  know  I  shall  soon  need 
much  repose.  Of  the  commencement  of  my  illness  1  have 
only  a  confused  recollection;  but  within  the  last  twelve 
hours,  I  have  been  before  the  judgment-seat  of  God.  Do 
not  stare  incredulously  on  me — 'tis  as  true  as  have  been  my 
crimes,  and,  as  I  trust,  shall  be  my  repentance.  I  saw  the 
awful  Judge  arrayed  in  all  the  terrors  which  invest  him 
when  mercy  gives  place  to  justice.  The  dreadful  pomp  of 
offended  omnipotence,  I  saw, — I  remember.  It  is  fixed 
here;  printed  on  my  brain  in  characters  indelible;  but  it 
passeth  human  language.  What  I  can  describe  I  ivill — I 
may  speak  it  briefly.  It  is  enough  to  say,  I  was  weighed 
in  the  balance  and  found  wanting.  The  irrevocable  sen- 
tence was  upon  the  point  of  being  pronounced;  the  eye  of 
m)^  Almighty  Judge,  which  had  already  glanced  upon  me, 
half  spoke  my  doom;  when  I  observed  the  guardian  saint, 
to  whom  you  so  often  directed  my  prayers  when  I  was  a 
child,  looking  at  me  with  an  expression  of  benevolence  and 
compassion.  I  stretched  forth  my  hands  to  him,  and  be- 
sought his  intercession;  I  implored  that  one  year,  one 
month  might  be  given  to  me  on  earth,  to  do  penance  and 
atonement  for  my  transgressions.  He  threw  himself  at 
the  feet  of  my  Judge,  and  supplicated  for  mercy.  Oh! 
never— not  if  I  should  pass  through  ten  thousand  succes- 
sive states  of  being — never,  for  eternity,  shall  I  forget  the 
horrors  of  that  moment,  when  my  fate  hung  suspended — 
when  an  instant  was  to  decide  whether  torments  unuttera- 
ble were  to  be  my  portion  for  endless  ages?  But  Justice 
suspended  its  decree,  and  Mercy  spoke  in  accents  of  firm- 
ness, but  mildness,  ^Return  to  that  world  in  which  thou 
hast  lived  but  to  outrage  the  laws  of  Him  who  made  that 
world  and  thee.  Three  years  are  given  thee  for  repent- 
ance; when  these  are  ended,  thou  shalt  again  stand  here, 
to  be  saved  or  lost  for  ever.' — I  heard  no  more;  I  saw  no 
more,  until  I  awoke  to  life,  the  moment  before  you  en- 
tered." 

Charles's  strength  continued  just  long  enough  to  finish 
these  last  worcfs,  and  on  uttering  them  he  closed  his  eyes, 
and  lay  quite  exhausted.     His  mother,  though,  as  was  be- 


92  LEGENDS  or  THE  BANSHEE. 

fore  said,  somewhat  disposed  to  give  credit  to  supernatural 
visitations,  yet  hesitated  whether  or  not  she  should  believe 
that,  although  awakened  from  a  swoon,  which  might  have 
been  the  crisis  of  his  disease,  he  was  still  under  the  influ- 
ence of  delirium.  Repose,  however,  was  at  all  events  ne- 
cessary, and  she  took  immediate  measures  that  he  should 
enjoy  it  undisturbed.  After  some  hours'  sleep,  he  awoke 
refreshed,  and  thenceforward  gradually  but  steadily  reco- 
vered. 

Still  he  persisted  in  his  account  of  the  vision,  as  he  had 
at  first  related  it;  and  his  persuasion  of  its  reality  had  an 
obvious  and  decided  influence  on  his  habits  and  conduct. 
He  did  not  altogether  abandon  the  society  of  his  former 
associates,  for  his  temper  was  not  soured  by  his  reforma- 
tion; but  he  never  joined  in  their  excesses,  and  often  en- 
deavoured to  reclaim  them.  How  his  pious  exertions  suc- 
ceeded, I  have  never  learnt;  but  of  himself  it  is  recorded, 
that  he  was  religious  without  ostentation,  and  temperate 
without  austerity;  giving  a  practical  proof  that  vice  may 
be  exchanged  for  virtue,  without  a  loss  of  respectability, 
popularity,  or  happiness. 

Time  rolled  on,  and  long  before  the  three  years  were 
ended,  the  story  of  his  vision  was  forgotten,  or,  when 
spoken  of,  was  usually  mentioned  as  an  instance  proving 
the  folly  of  believing  in  such  things.  Charles's  health  from 
the  temperance  and  regularity  of  his  habits,  became  more  ro- 
bust than  ever.  His  friends,  indeed,  had  often  occasion  to 
rally  him  upon  a  seriousness  and  abstractedness  of  demean- 
our, which  grew  upon  him  as  he  approached  the  completion 
of  his  seven-and-twentieth  year,  but  for  the  most  part  his 
manner  exhibited  the  same  animation  and  cheerfulness  for 
which  he  had  always  been  remarkable.  In  company  he 
evaded  every  endeavour  to  draw  from  him  a  distinct  opinion 
on  the  subject  of  the  supposed  prediction;  but  among  his  own 
family  it  was  well  known  that  he  still  firmly  believed  it. 
However,  when  the  day  had  nearly  arrived  on  which  the 
prophecy  was,  if  at  all,  to  be  fulfilled,  his  whole  appear^ftice 
gave  such  promise  of  a  long  and  healthy  life,  that  he  was 
persuaded  by  his  friends  to  ask  a  large  party  to  an  enter- 
tainment at  Spring  House,  to  celebrate  his  birth-day.  But 
the  occasion  of  this  party,  and  the  circumstances  which 


LEGENDS  or  THE  BANSHEE.  93 

attended  it,  will  be  best  learned  from  a  perusal  of  the  fol- 
lowing letters,  which  have  been  carefully  preserved  by  some 
relations  of  his  family.  The  first  is  from  Mrs.  Mac  Carthy 
to  a  lady,  a  very  near  connexion  and  valued  friend  of  hers, 
who  lived  in  the  county  of  Cork,  at  about  fifty  miles'  dis- 
tance from  Spring  House. 

"  To  Mrs.  Barry,  Castle  Barry. 

Spring  House,  Tuesday  morning, 
October  15th,  1752. 
"my  dearest  MARY, 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  going  to  put  your  affection  for  your 
old  friend  and  kinswoman  to  a  severe  trial.  A  two  da)^s' 
journey  at  this  season,  over  bad  roads  and  through  a  trou- 
bled country,  it  will  indeed  require  friendship  such  as  yours 
to  persuade  a  sober  woman  to  encounter.  But  the  truth 
is,  1  have,  or  fancy  1  have,  more  than  usual  cause  for  wish- 
ing you  near  me.  You  know  my  son's  story.  I  can't  tell 
how  it  is,  but  as  next  Sunday  approaches,  when  the  pre- 
diction of  his  dream  or  his  vision  will  be  proved  false  or 
true,  I  feel  a  sickening  of  the  heart,  which  1  cannot  sup- 
press, but  which  your  presence,  my  dear  Mary,  will  soften, 
as  it  has  done  so  many  of  my  sorrows.  My  nephew,  James 
Ryan,  is  to  be  married  to  Jane  Osborne  (who,  you  know, 
is  my  son's  ward,)  and  the  bridal  entertainment  will  take 
place  here  on  Sunday  next,  though  Charles  pleaded  hard 
to  have  it  postponed  a  day  or  two  longer.  Would  to  God — 
but  no  more  of  this  till  we  meet.  Do  prevail  upon  your- 
self to  leave  your  good  man  for  one  week,  if  his  farming 
concerns  will  not  admit  of  his  accompanying  you;  and  come 
to  us  with  the  girls,  as  soon  before  Sunday  as  you  can. 

"Ever  my  dear  Mary's  attached  cousin  and  friend, 

"Ann  Mac  Carthy." 

Although  this  letter  reached  Castle  Barry  early  on 
Wednesday,  the  messenger  having  travelled  on  foot,  over 
bog  and  moor,  by  paths  impassable  to  horse  or  carriage, 
Mrs.  Barry,  who  at  once  determined  on  going,  had  so 
many  arrangements  to  make  for  the  regulation  of  her  do- 
mestic aflairs  (which,  in  Ireland,  among  the  middle  orders 


94  LEGENDS  OP  THE  BANSHEE. 

of  the  gentry,  fall  soon  into  confusion  when  the  mistress 
of  the  family  is  away,)  that  sh6  and  her  two  younger 
daughters  were  unable  to  leave  home  until  late  on  the 
morning;  of  Friday.  The  eldest  daughter  remained,  to  keep 
her  father  company,  and  superintend  the  concerns  of  the 
household.  As  the  travellers  were  to  journey  in  an  open 
one-horse  vehicle,  called  a  jaunting-car  (still  used  in  Ire- 
land,) and  as  the  roads,  bad  at  all  times,  were  rendered  still 
worse  by  the  heavy  rains,  it  was  their  design  to  make  two 
easy  stages;  to  stop  about  mid-way  the  first  night,  and  reach 
Spring  House  early  on  Saturday  evening.  This  arrange- 
ment was  now  altered,  as  they  found  that  from  the  lateness 
of  their  departure,  they  could  proceed,  at  the  utmost,  no 
further  than  twenty  miles  on  the  first  day;  and  they  there- 
fore purposed  sleeping  at  the  house  of  a  Mr.  Bourke,  a 
friend  of  theirs,  who  lived  at  somewhat  less  than  that  dis- 
tance from  Castle  Barry.  They  reached  Mr.  Bourke's  in 
safety,  after  rather  a  disagreeable  drive.  What  befell  them 
on  their  journey  the  next  day  to  the  Spring  House,  and 
after  their  arrival  there,  is  fully  related  in  a  letter  from  the 
second  Miss  Barry  to  her  eldest  sister. 

"Spring  House,  Sunday  evening, 
20th  October,  1752. 
"dear  ELLEN, 

"As  my  mother's  letter,  which  encloses  this,  will  an- 
nounce to  you  briefly  the  sad  intelligence  which  I  shall 
here  relate  more  fully,  I  think  it  better  to  go  regularly 
through  the  recital  of  the  extraordinary  events  of  the  last 
two  days. 

"The  Bourkes  kept  us  up  so  late  on  Friday  night,  that 
yesterday  was  pretty  far  advanced  before  we  could  begin 
our  journey,  and  the  day  closed  when  we  were  nearly  fif- 
teen miles  distant  from  this  place.  The  roads  were  exces- 
sively deep,  from  the  heavy  rains  of  the  last  week,  and  we 
proceeded  so  slowly,  that  at  last  my  mother  resolved  on 
passing  the  night  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Bourke's  brother 
(who  lives  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off  the  road),  and 
coming  here  to  breakfast  in  the  morning.  The  day  had 
been  windy  and  showery,  and  the  sky  looked  fitful,  gloomy, 
and  uncertain.     The  moon  was  full,  and  at  times  shone 


LEGENDS  or  THE  BANSHEE.  95 

clear  and  bright;  at  others,  it  was  wholly  concealed  behind 
the  thick,  black,  and  rugged  masses  of  clouds,  that  rolled 
rapidly  along,  and  were  every  moment  becoming  larger, 
and  collecting  together,  as  if  gathering  strength  for  a 
coming  storm.  The  wind,  which  blew  in  our  faces,  whis- 
tled bleakly  along  the  low  hedges  of  the  narrow  road,  on 
which  we  proceeded  with  difficulty  from  the  number  of 
deep  sloughs,  and  which  afforded  not  the  least  shelter,  no 
plantation  being  within  some  miles  of  us.  My  mother, 
therefore,  asked  Leary,'  who  drove  the  jaunting-car,  how 
far  we  were  from  Mr.  Bourke's.  < 'Tis  about  ten  spades 
from  this  to  the  cross,  and  we  have  then  only  to  turn  to 
the  left  into  the  avenue,  ma'am.'  '  Very  well,  Leary :  turn 
up  to  Mr.  Bourke's  as  soon  as  you  reach  the  cross  roads.' 
My  mother  had  scarcely  spoken  these  words,  when  a 
shriek  that  made  us  thrill  as  if  our  very  hearts  were  pierced 
by  it,  burst  from  the  hedge  to  the  right  of  our  w^ay.  If  it 
resembled  any  thing  earthly,  it  seemed  the  cry  of  a  female, 
struck  by  a  sudden  and  mortal  blow,  and  giving  out  her 
life  in  one  long  deep  pang  of  expiring  agony.  '  Heaven 
defend  us!'  exclaimed  my  niother.  'Go  you  over  the 
hedge,  Leary,  and  save  that  woman,  if  she  is  not  yet  dead^ 
while  we  run  back  to  the  hut  we  just  passed,  and  alarm 
the  village  near  it.'  '  Woman!' said  Leary,  beating  the 
horse  violently,  while  his  voice  trembled — 'that's  no  wo- 
man: the  sooner  we  get  on,  ma'am,  the  better;'  and  he 
continued  his  efforts  to  quicken  the  horse's  pace.  We  saw 
nothing.  The  moon  was  hid.  It  was  quite  dark,  and  we 
had  been  for  some  time  expecting  a  heavy  fall  of  rain. 
But  just  as  Leary  had  spoken,  and  had  succeeded  in  making 
the  horse  trot  briskly  forward,  we  distinctly  heard  a  loud 
clapping  of  hands,  followed  by  a  succession  of  screams,  that 
seemed  to  denote  the  last  excess  of  despair  and  anguish^ 
and  to  issue  from  a  person  running  forward  inside  the  hedge, 
to  keep  pace  with  our  progress.  Still  we  saw  nothing; 
until,  when  we  were  within  about  ten  yards  of  the  place 
where  an  avenue  branched  off  to  Mr.  Bourke's  to  the  left, 
and  the  road  turned  to  Spring  House  on  the  right,  the  moon 
started  suddenly  from  behind  a  cloud,  and  enabled  us  to 
see,  as  plainly  as  I  now  see  this  paper,  the  figure  of  a  tall 
thin  woman,  with  uncovered  headland  longhair  that  float- 


96 


LEGENDS  OP  THE  BANSHEE. 


ed  round  her  shoulders,  attired  in  something  which  seemed 
either  a  loose  white  cloak,  or  a  sheet  thrown  hastily  about 
her.  She  stood  on  the  corner  hedge,  where  the  road  on 
which  we  were,  met  that  which  leads  to  Spring  House, 
with  her  face  towards  us,  her  left  hand  pointing  to  this 
place,  and  her  right  arm  waving  rapidly  and  violently,  as 
if  to  draw  us  on  in  that  direction.  The  horse  had  stopped, 
apparently  frightened  at  the  sudden  presence  of  the  figure, 
which  stood  in  the  manner  I  have  described,  still  uttering 
the  same  piercing  cries,  for  about  half  a  minute.  It  then 
leaped  upon  the  road,  disappeared  from  our  view  for  one 
instant,  and  the  next  was  seen  standing  upon  a  high  wall  a 
little  way  up  the  avenue,  on  which  we  proposed  going,  still 
pointing  towards  the  road  to  Spring  House,  but  in  an  atti- 
tude of  defiance  and  command,  as  if  prepared  to  oppose  our 
passage  up  the  avenue.  The  figure  was  now  quite  silent, 
and  its  garments,  which  had  before  flown  loosely  in  the 
wind,  were  closely  wrapped  around  it.  '  Go  on,  Leary,  to 
Spring  House,  in  God's  name,'  said  my  mother;  '  whatever 
world  it  belongs  to,  we  will  provoke  it  no  longer.'  '  'Tis 
the  Banshee,  ma'am,'  said  Leary;  *and  I  would  not,  for 
what  my  life  is  worth,  go  any  where  this  blessed  night  but 
to  Spring  House.  But  I'm  afraid  there's  something  bad 
going  forward,  or  she  would  not  send  us  there.'  So  saying, 
he  drove  forward;  and  as  we  turned  on  the  road  to  the 
right,  the  moon  suddenly  withdrew  its  light,  and  we  saw 
the  apparition  no  more;  but  we  heard  plainly  a  prolonged 
clapping  of  hands,  gradually  dying  away,  as  if  it  issued  from 
a  person  rapidly  retreating.  We  proceeded  as  quickly  as 
the  badness  of  the  roads  and  the  fatigue  of  the  poor  animal 
that  drew  us  would  allow,  and  arrived  here  about  eleven 
o'clock  last  night.  The  scene  which  awaited  us  you  have 
learned  from  my  mother's  letter.  To  explain  it  fully,  I 
must  recount  to  you  some  of  the  transactions  wiiich  took 
place  here  during  the  last  week. 

"You  are  aware  that  Jane  Osborne  was  to  have  been  mar- 
ried this  day  to  James  Ryan,  and  that  they  and  their  friends 
have  been  here  for  the  last  week.  On  Tuesday  last,  the  very 
day  on  the  morning  of  which  cousin  Mac  Carthy  despatched 
the  letter  inviting  us  here,  tlie  whole  of  the  company  were 
walking  about  the  grounds  a  little  before  dinner.     It  seems 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  BANSHEE.  97 

that  an  unfortunate  creature,  who  had  been  seduced  by- 
James  Ryan,  was  seen  prowling  in  the  neighbourhood  in  a 
moody  melancholy  state  for  some  days  previous.  He  had 
separated  from  her  for  several  months, and,  they  say, had  pro* 
vided  for  her  rather  handsomely;  but  she  had  been  seduced 
by  the  promise  of  his  marrying  her;  and  the  shame  of  her 
unhappy  condition,  uniting  with  disappointment  and  jea- 
lousy, had  disordered  her  intellects.  During  the  whole 
forenoon  of  this  Tuesday,  she  had  been  walking  in  the 
plantations  near  Spring  House,  with  her  cloak  folded  tight 
around  her,  the  hood  nearly  covering  her  face;  and  she  had 
avoided  conversing  with  or  even  meeting  any  of  the  family. 

"Charles  Mac  Carthy,  at  the  time  1  mentioned,  was 
walking  between  James  Ryan  and  another,  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  the  rest,  on  a  gravel  path,  skirting  a  shrubbery. 
The  whole  party  were  thrown  into  the  utmost  consterna 
tion  by  the  report  of  a  pistol,  fired  from  a  thickly  planted 
part  of  the  shrubbery,  which  Charles  and  his  companions 
had  just  passed.  He  fell  instantly,  and  it  was  found  tliat 
he  had  been  wounded  in  the  leg.  One  of  the  party  was  a 
medical  man;  his  assistance  was  immediately  given,  and, 
on  examining,  he  declared  that  the  injury  was  very  slight, 
that  no  bone  was  broken,  that  it  was  merely  a  flesh  wound, 
and  that  it  would  certainly  be  well  in  a  few  days.  *  We 
shall  know  more  by  Sunday,'  said  Charles,  as  he  was  carried 
to  his  chamber.  His  wound  was  immediately  dressed,  and 
so  slight  was  the  inconvenience  which  it  gave,  that  several 
of  his  friends  spent  a  portion  of  the  evening  in  his  apart- 
ment. 

"On  inquiry,  it  was  found  that  the  unlucky  shot  was 
fired  by  the  poor  girl  1  just  mentioned.  It  was  also  mani- 
fest that  she  had  aimed,  not  at  Charles,  but  at  the  destroyer 
of  her  innocence  and  happiness,  who  was  walking  beside 
him.  After  a  fruitless  search  for  her  through  the  grounds, 
she  walked  into  the  house  of  her  own  accord,  laughing,  and 
dancing  and  singing  wildly,  and  every  moment  exclaiming 
that  she  had  at  last  killed  Mr.  Ryan.  When  she  heard 
that  it  was  Charles,  and  not  Mr.  Ryan,  who  was  shot,  she 
fell  into  a  violent  fit,  out  of  which,  after  working  convul- 
sively for  some  time,  she  sprung  to  the  door,  escaped  from 
the  crowd  that  pursued  her,  and  could  never  be  taken  until 
9 


98  LEGENDS  OP  THE  BANSHEE. 

last  night,  when  she  was  brought  here,  perfectly  frantic,  a 
little  before  our  arrival. 

"  Charles's  wound  was  thought  of  such  little  consequence, 
that  the  preparations  went  forward,  as  usual,  for  the  wed- 
ding entertainment  on  Sunday.  But  on  Friday  night  he 
grew  restless  and  feverish,  and  on  Saturday  (yesterday) 
morning  felt  so  ill,  that  it  was  deemed  necessary  to  obtain 
additional  medical  advice.  Two  physicians  and  a  surgeon 
met  in  consultation  about  twelve  o'clock  in  the  day,  and 
the  dreadful  intelligence  was  announced,  that  unless  a 
change,  hardly  hoped  for,  took  place  before  night,  death 
must  happen  within  twenty-four  hours  after.  The  wound 
it  seems,  had  been  too  tightly  bandaged,  and  otherwise  in- 
judiciously treated.  The  physicians  were  right  in  their 
anticipations.  No  favourable  symptom  appeared,  and  long 
before  we  reached  Spring  House  every  ray  of  hope  had 
vanished.  The  scene  we  witnessed  on  our  arrival  would 
have  wrung  the  heart  of  a  demon.  We  heard  briefly  at 
the  gate  that  Mr.  Charles  was  upon  his  death-bed.  When 
we  reached  the  house,  the  information  was  confirmed  by 
the  servant  who  opened  the  door.  But  just  as  we  entered, 
we  were  horrified  by  the  most  appalling  screams  issuing 
from  the  staircase.  My  mother  thought  she  heard  the 
voice  of  poor  Mrs.  Mac  Carthy,  and  sprung  forward.  We 
followed,  and  on  ascending  a  few  steps  of  the  stairs,  we 
found  a  young  woman,  in  a  state  of  frantic  passion,  strug- 
gling furiously  with  two  men-servants,  whose  united 
strength  was  hardly  sufficient  to  prevent  her  rushing  up 
stairs  over  the  body  of  Mrs.  Mac  Carthy,  who  was  lying 
in  strong  hysterics  upon  the  steps.  This,  I  afterwards 
discovered,  was  the  unhappy  girl  I  before  described,  who 
was  attempting  to  gain  access  to  Chjirles's  room,  to  ^  get 
his  forgiveness,'  as  she  said,  ^  before  he  went  away  to  ac- 
cuse her  for  having  killed  him.'  This  wild  idea  was  min- 
gled with  another,  which  seemed  to  dispute  with  the  for- 
mer possession  of  her  mind.  In  one  sentence  she  called  on 
Charles  to  forgive  her,  in  the  next  she  would  denounce 
James  Ryan  as  the  murderer  both  of  Charles  and  her.  At 
length  she  was  torn  away;  and  the  last  words  1  heard  her 
scream  were,  ^  James  Ryan,  'twas  you  killed  him,  and  not 
I — 'twas  you  killed  him,  and  not  1.' 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  BANSHEE.  99 

"Mrs.  Mac  Carthy,  on  recovering,  fell  into  the  arms  of 
my  mother,  wliose  presence  seemed  a  great  relief  to  her. 
She  wept  the  first  tears,  I  was  told,  that  she  had  shed  since 
the  fatal  accident.  She  conducted  us  to  Charles's  room, 
who  she  said,  had  desired  to  see  us  the  moment  of  our  ar- 
rival, as  he  found  his  end  approaching,  and  wished  to  de- 
vote the  last  hours  of  his  existence  to  uninterrupted  prayer 
and  meditation.  We  found  him  perfectly  calm,  resigned, 
and  even  cheerful.  He  spoke  of  the  awful  event  which 
was  at  hand  with  courage  and  confidence,  and  treated  it  as 
a  doom  for  which  he  had  been  preparing  ever  since  his 
former  remarkable  illness,  and  which  he  never  once  doubted 
was  truly  foretold  to  him.  He  bade  us  farewell  with  the 
air  of  one  who  was  about  to  travel  a  short  and  easy  journey; 
and  we  left  him  with  impressions  which,  notwithstanding 
all  their  anguish,  will,  I  trust,  never  entirely  forsake  us. 

"Poor  Mrs.  Mac  Carthy but  I  am  just  called  away. 

There  seems  a  slight  stir  in  the  family;  perhaps " 

The  above  letter  was  never  finished.  The  enclosure  to 
which  it  more  than  once  alludes,  told  the  sequel  briefly, 
and  it  is  all  that  I  have  farther  learned  of  this  branch  of 
the  Mac  Carthy  family.  Before  the  sun  had  gone  down 
upon  Charles's  seven-and-twentieth  birthday,  his  soul  had 
gone  to  render  its  last  account  to  its  Creator. 


"  Banshee,  correctly  written  she-fairiee  or  women  fairies,  credu- 
lously supposed,  by  the  common  people,  to  be  so  affected  to  certain 
families,  that  they  are  heard  to  sing  mournful  lamentations  about 
their  houses  at  night,  whenever  any  of  the  family  labours  under  a 
sickness  which  is  to  end  in  death.  But  no  families  which  are  not 
of  an  ancient  and  noble  stock  are  believed  to  be  honoured  with  this 
fairy  privilege." — O'Brien's  Irish  Dictionary. 

For  accounts  of  the  appearance  of  the  Irish  Banshee,  see  "  Per- 
sonal Sketches,  &.c.  by  Sir  Jonah  Barrington;"  Miss  Lefanu's  Me- 
moirs of  her  Grandmother,  Mrs.  Frances  Sheridan  (1824,)  p.  32; 
*'  The  Memoirs  of  Lady  Fanshaw  "  (quoted  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  in 
a  note  on  "the  Lady  of  the  Lake,")  &c. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  terms  the  belief  in  the  appearance  of  the  Ban- 
shee ♦•  one  of  the  most  beautiful "  of  the  leading  superstitions  of 
Europe.  In  his  *'  Letters  on  Demonology,"  he  says  that  "  several 
families  of  the  Highlands  of  Scotland  anciently  laid  claim  to  the 
distinction  of  an  attendant  spirit,  who  performed  the  office  of  the 
Irish  Banshee,"  and  particularly  refers  to  the  supernatural  cries  and 
lamentations  which  foreboded  the  death  of  the  gallant  Mac  Lean  of 
Lochbuy. 

"  The  Welsh  Gwrach  y  Rhibyn  (or  the  hag  of  the  Dribble)  bears 
some  resemblance  to  the  Irish  Banshee,  being  regarded  as  an  omen 
of  death.  She  is  said  to  come  after  dusk  and  flap  her  leathern 
wings  against  the  window  where  she  warns  of  death,  and  in  a 
broken,  howling  tone,  to  call  on  the  one  who  is  to  quit  mortality  by 
his  or  her  name  several  times,  as  thus, A -a-a-n-ni-i-i-il  Anni." — 
MS.  Communication  from  Dr.  Owen  Pughe.  For  some  farther 
particulars,  see,  in  "  A  Relation  of  Apparitions,  &c,  by  the  Rev. 
Edmund  Jones,"  his  account  of  the  Kyhirraeth,  "  a  doleful  fore- 
boding noise  before  death;"  and  Howell's  "  Cambrian  Superstitions," 
(Tipton,  1831,)  p.  31. 

The  reader  will  probably  remember  the  White  Lady  of  the  House 
of  Brandenburgh,  and  the  fairy  Melusine,  who  usually  prognosticated 
the  recurrence  of  mortality  in  some  noble  family  of  Poitou.  Prince, 
in  his  "  Worthies  of  Devon,"  records  the  appearance  of  a  white 
bird  performing  the  same  office  for  the  worshipful  lineage  of  Oxen- 
ham. 

"In  the  Tyrol,  too,  they  believe  in  a  spirit  which  looks  in  at  the 
window  of  the  house  in  which  a  person  is  to  die  {Deutsche  Sagen, 
No.  266;)  the  white  woman  with  a  veil  over  her  head  (267,)  answers 
to  the  Banshee;  but  the  tradition  of  the  Klage-weib  (mourning 
woman,)  in  the  Li'mehurger  Heath  (Spiels  Archiv.  ii.  297,)  re- 
sembles it  still  more  closely.  On  stormy  nights,  when  the  moon 
shines  faintly  through  the  fleeting  clouds,  she  stalks,  of  gigantic 
stature,  with  death-like  aspect,  and  black  hollow  eyes,  wrapt  in 
grave-clothes  which  float  in  the  wind,  and  stretches  her  immense 
arm  over  the  solitary  hut,  uttering  lamentable  cries  in  the  tempestu- 
ous darkness.  Beneath  the  roof  over  which  the  Klage-weib  has 
leaned,  one  of  the  inmates  must  die  in  the  course  of  the  month." — 
The  Brothers  Grimm,  and  MS,  Communication  from  Dr.  Wil- 
liam Grimm. 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  PHOOKA 


"  Ne  let  house-fires,  nor  lightnings'  helpless  harms, 
Ne  let  the  Pouke,  nor  other  evil  spright, 
Ne  let  mischievous  witches  with  their  charms, 
Ne  let  hobgoblins,  names  whose  sense  we  see  not, 
Fray  us  with  things  that  be  not." 

Spenser. 


THE  SPIRIT  HORSE. 


XIV^. 

The  history  of  Morty  Sullivan  ought  to  be  a  warning  to 
all  young  men  to  stay  at  home,  and  to  live  decently  and 
soberly  if  they  can,  and  not  to  go  roving  about  the  world. 
Morty,  when  he  had  just  turned  of  fourteen,  ran  away  from 
his  father  and  mother,  who  were  a  mighty  respectable  old 
couple,  and  many  and  many  a  tear  they  shed  on  his  account. 
It  is  said  they  both  died  heart-broken  for  his  loss:  all  they 
ever  learned  about  him  was  that  he  went  on  board  of  a  ship 
bound  to  America. 

Thirty  years  after  the  old  couple  had  been  laid  peacefully 

9^ 


102  THE  SPIRIT  HORSE. 

ill  their  graves,  there  came  a  stranger  to  Beerhaven  in- 
quiring after  them — it  was  their  son  Morty;  and,  to  speak 
the  truth  of  him,  his  heart  did  seem  full  of  sorrow  when 
he  heard  that  his  parents  were  dead  and  gone; — but  what 
else  could  he  expect  to  hear?  Repentance  generally  comes 
when  it  is  too  late. 

Morty  Sullivan,  however,  as  an  atonement  for  his  sins, 
was  recommended  to  perform  a  pilgrimage  to  the  blessed 
chapel  of  Saint  Gobnate,  which  is  in  a  wild  place  called 
Ballyvourney. 

■  This  he  readily  undertook:  and  willing  to  lose  no  time, 
commenced  his  journey  the  same  afternoon.  He  had  not 
proceeded  many  miles  before  the  evening  came  on:  there 
was  no  moon,  and  the  star-light  was  obscured  by  a  thick  fog, 
which  ascended  from  the  valleys.  His  way  was  through 
a  mountainous  country,  with  many  cross-paths  and  bj'-ways, 
so  that  it  was  difficult  for  a  stranger  like  Morty  to  travel 
without  a  guide.  He  was  anxious  to  reach  his  destination, 
and  exerted  himself  to  do  so;  but  the  fog  grew  thicker  and 
thicker,  and  at  last  he  became  doubtful  if  the  track  he  was 
in  led  to  the  blessed  chapel  of  Saint  Gobnate.  But  seeing  a 
light  which  he  imagined  not  to  be  far  off,  he  went  towards 
it, and  when  he  thoughthimself  close  to  it,the  light  suddenly 
seemed  at  a  great  distance,  twinkling  dimly  through  the 
fog.  Thougli  Morty  felt  some  surprise  at  this,  he  was  not 
disheartened,  for  he  thought  that  it  was  a  liglit  sent  by  the 
holy  Saint  Gobnate  to  guide  his  feet  through  the  mountains 
to  her  chapel. 

And  thus  did  he  travel  for  many  a  mile,  continually,  as 
he  believed,  approaching  the  light,  which  would  suddenly 
start  off  to  a  great  distance.  At  length  he  came  so  close 
as  to  perceive  that  the  light  came  from  a  fire:  seated  beside 
which  he  plainly  saw  an  old  woman; — then,  indeed,  his 
faith  was  a  little  shaken,  and  much  did  he  wonder  that  both 
the  fire  and  the  old  woman  should  travel  before  him,  so 
many  weary  miles,  and  over  such  uneven  roads. 

"  In  the  holy  names  of  the  pious  Gobnate,  and  of  her 
preceptor  Saint  Abban,"  said  Morty,  "how  can  that  burn- 
ing fire  move  on  so  fast  before  me,  and  who  can  that  old 
woman  be  sitting  beside  the  moving  fire?" 

These  words  had  no  sooner  passed  Morty 's  lips  than  he 


THE  SPIRIT  HORSE.  103 

found  himself,  without  taking  another  step,  close  to  this 
wonderful  fire,  beside  which  the  old  woman  was  sitting 
<9nunching  her  supper.  With  every  wag  of  the  old  wo- 
man's jaw  her  eyes  would  roll  fiercely  upon  Morty,  as  if 
she  was  angry  at  being  disturbed;  and  he  saw  with  more 
astonishment  than  ever  that  her  eyes  were  neither  black, 
nor  blue,  nor  gray,  nor  hazel,  like  the  human  eye,  but  of  a 
wild  red  colour,  like  the  eye  of  a  ferret.  If  before  he 
wondered  at  the  fire,  much  greater  was  his  wonder  at  the 
old  woman's  appearance;  and  stout-hearted  as  he  was,  he 
could  not  but  look  upon  her  with  fear — judging,  and  judg- 
ing rightly,  that  it  was  for  no  good  purpose  her  supping 
in  so  unfrequented  a  place,  and  at  so  late  an  hour,  for  it 
was  near  midnight.  She  said  not  one  word,  but  munched 
and  munched  away,  while  Morty  looked  at  her  in  silence. 
— "  What's  your  name?"  at  last  demanded  the  old  hag,  a 
sulphureous  puff  coming  out  of  her  mouth,  her  nostrils  dis- 
tending, and  her  eyes  growing  redder  than  ever,  when  she 
had  finished  her  question. 

Plucking  up  all  his  courage,  "Morty  Sullivan,"  replied 
he  "at  your  service;"  meaning  the  latter  words  only  in 
civility. 

"  Ubbubbo!''  said  the  old  woman,  "  we'll  soon  see  that;" 
and  the  red  fire  of  her  eyes  turned  into  a  pale  green  colour. 
Bold  and  fearless  as  Mortv  was,  yet  much  did  he  tremble 
at  hearing  this  dreadful  exclamation:  he  would  have  fallen 
down  on  his  knees  and  prayed  to  Saint  Gobnate,  or  any 
other  saint,  for  he  was  not  particular;  but  he  was  so  petri- 
fied with  horror,  that  he  could  not  move  in  the  slightest 
way,  much  less  go  down  on  his  knees. 

"Take  hold  of  my  hand,  Morty,"  said  the  old  woman: 
"I'll  give  you  a  horse  to  ride  that  will  soon  carry  you  to 
your  journey's  end."  So  saying,  she  led  the  way,  the  fire 
going  before  them; — it  is  be3'ond  mortal  knowledge  to  say 
how,  but  on  it  went,  shooting  out  bright  tongues  of  flame, 
and  flickering  fiercely. 

Presently  they  came  to  a  natural  cavern  in  the  side  of 
the  mountain,  and  the  old  hag  called  aloud  in  a  most  dis- 
cordant voice  for  her  horse!  In  a  moment  a  jet-black 
steed  started  from  its  gloomy  stable,  the  rocky  floor 
whereof  rung  with  a  sepulchral  echo  to  the  clanging  hoofs. 


104  THE  SPIRIT  HORSE. 

"Mount,  Morty,  mount!"  cried  she,  seizing  him  with 
supernatural  strength,  and  forcing  him  upon  the  back  of 
the  horse.  Morty  finding  human  power  of  no  avail,  mut- 
tered, "O  that  I  had  spurs!"  and  tried  to  grasp  the  horse's 
mane;  but  he  caught  at  a  shadow;  it  nevertheless  bore  him 
up  and  bounded  forward  with  him,  now  springing  down  a 
fearful  precipice,  now  clearing  the  rugged  bed  of  a  torrent, 
and  rushing  like  the  dark  midnight  storm  through  the 
mountains. 

The  following  morning  Morty  Sullivan  was  discovered 
by  some  pilgrims  (who  came  that  way  after  taking  their 
rounds  at  Gougane  Barra)  lying  on  the  flat  of  his  back, 
under  a  steep  cliff,  down  which  he  had  been  flung  by  the 
Phooka.  Morty  was  severely  bruised  by  the  fall,  and  he 
is  said  to  have  sworn  on  the  spot,  by  the  hand  of  O'Sullivan 
(and  that  is  no  small  oath),*  never  again  to  take  a  full  quart 
bottle  of  whisky  with  him  on  a  pilgrimage. 

*  **  Nulla  manus. 
Tarn  liberalis 
Atque  generalis 
Atque  universalis 
Q,uarn  Sullivanis." 


105 


DANIEL  O'ROURKE. 

XV. 

People  may  have  heard  of  the  renowned  adventures  of 
Daniel  O'Rourke,  but  how  few  are  there  who  know  that 
the  cause  of  all  his  perils,  above  and  below,  was  neither 
more  nor  less  than  his  having  slept  under  the  walls  of  the 
Phooka's  tower!  I  knew  the  man  well;  he  lived  at  the 
bottom  of  Hungry  Hill,  just  at  the  right  hand  side  of  the 
road  as  you  go  towards  Bantry.  An  old  man  was  he  at 
the  time  that  he  told  me  the  story,  with  gray  hair,  and  a 
red  nose;  and  it  was  on  the  25th  of  June,  1813,  that  I  heard 
it  from  his  own  lips,  as  he  sat  smoking  his  pipe  under  the 
old  poplar  tree,  on  as  fine  an  evening  as  ever  shone  from 
the  sky.  I  was  going  to  visit  the  caves  in  Dursey  Island, 
having  spent  the  morning  at  Glengariff. 

"I  am  often  axed  to  lell  it,  sir,"  said  he,  "  so  that  this  is 
not  the  first  time.  The  master's  son,  you  see,  had  come 
from  beyond  foreign  parts  in  France  and  Spain,  as  young 
gentlemen  used  to  go,  before  Bonaparte  or  any  such  was 
heard  of;  and  sure  enough  there  was  a  dinner  given  to  all 
the  people  on  the  ground,  gentle  and  simple,  high  and  low, 
rich  and  poor.  The  ould  gentlemen  were  the  gentlemen, 
after  all,  saving  your  honour's  presence.  They'd  swear  at 
a  body  a  little,  to  be  sure,  and  may  be,  give  one  a  cut  of  a 
whip  now  and  then,  but  we  were  no  losers  by  it  in  the  end; 
— and  they  were  so  easy  and  civil,  and  kept  such  rattling 
houses,  and  thousands  of  welcomes; — and  there  was  no 
grinding  for  rent,  and  few  agents;  and  there  was  hardly  a 
tenant  on  the  estate  that  did  not  taste  of  his  landlord's  boun- 
ty often  and  often  in  the  year; — but  now  it's  another  thing: 
no  matter  for  that,  sir;  for  I'd  better  be  telling  you  my  story. 

"Well,  we  had  every  thing  of  the  best,  and  plenty  of  it; 
and  we  ate,  and  we  drank,  and  we  danced,  and  the  young 
master  by  the  same  token  danced  with  Peggy  Barry,  from 
the  Bohereen — a  lovely  young  couple  they  were,  though 
the}^  are  both  low  enough  now.  To  make  a  long  story 
short,  I  got,  as  a  body  may  say,  the  same  thing  as  tipsy 
almost;  for  I  can't  remember  ever  at  all,  no  ways,  how  it 
was  I  left  the  place:  only  I  did  leave  it,  that's  certain. 
Well,  I  thought,  for  all  that,  in  myself,  Pd  just  step  to 


106       ^ 

Molly  Cronohan's,  the  fairy  woman,  to  speak  a  word  about 
the  bracket  heifer  that  was  bewitched;  and  so  as  I  was 
crossing  the  stepping-stones  of  the  ford  of  Ballyasheenough, 
and  was  looking  up  at  the  stars  and  blessing  myself — for 
why?  it  was  Lady-day — I  missed  my  foot,  and  souse  I  fell 
into  the  water.  *  Death  alive!'  thought  I, '  I'll  be  drowned 
now!'  However,  I  began  swimming,  swimming,  swim- 
ming away  for  the  dear  life,  till  at  last  I  got  ashore,  some- 
how or  other,  but  never  the  one  of  me  can  tell  how,  upon 
a  dissolute  island. 

"I  Vv^andered  and  wandered  about  there,  without  know- 
ing where  I  wandered,  until  at  last  I  got  into  a  big  bog. 
The  moon  was  shining  as  bright  as  day,  or  your  fair  lady's 
eyes,  sir,  (with  j^our  pardon  for  mentioning  her,)  and  I 
looked  east  and  west,  and  north  and  south,  and  every  way, 
and  nothing  did  I  see  but  bog,  bog,  bog; — I  could  never 
find  out  how  I  got  into  it;  and  my  heart  grew  cold  with 
fear,  for  sure  and  certain  I  was  that  it  would  be  my  herrin 
place.  So  I  sat  down  upon  a  stone  which,  as  good  luck 
would  have  it,  was  close  by  me,  and  I  began  to  scratch  my 
head  and  sing  the  Ullagone — when  all  of  a  sudden  the  moon 
grew  black,  and  I  looked  up,  and  saw  something  for  all  the 
world  as  if  it  was  moving  down  between  me  and  it,  and  I 
could  not  tell  what  it  was.  Down  it  came  with  a- pounce, 
and  looked  at  me  full  in  the  face;  and  what  was  it  but  an 
eagle?  as  fine  a  one  as  ever  flew  from  the  kingdom  of  Kerry. 

"So  he  looked  at  me  in  the  face,  and  says  he  to  me, 
< Daniel  O'Rourke,'  says  he,  'how  do  you  do?'  'Very 
well,  I  thank  you,  sir,'  says  I:  'I  hope  you're  well;'  won- 
dering out  of  my  senses  all  the  time  how  an  eagle  came  to 
speak  like  a  Christian,  '  What  brings  you  here,  Dan  ?'  says 
he.  'Nothing  at  all,  sir,'  says  I:  'only  I  wish  I  was  safe 
home  again.'  '  Is  it  out  of  the  Island  you  want  to  go,  Dan  ?' 
says  he.  '  'Tis,  sir,'  says  I:  so  1  up  and  told  him  how  I  had 
taisen  a  drop  too  much  and  fell  into  the  water;  how  I  swam 
to  the  Island ;  and  how  I  got  into  the  bog,  and  did  not  know 
my  way  out  of  it.  '  Dan,'  says  he,  after  a  minute's  thought, 
'though  it  is  very  improper  for  you  to  get  drunk  on  Lady- 
day,  yet  as  you  are  a  decent  sober  man,  who  'tends  mass 
well,  and  never  flings  stones  at  me  nor  mine,  nor  cries  out 
after  us  in  the  fields — my  life  for  yours,'  says  he;  'so  get 
up  on  my  back,  and  grip  me  well  for  fear  you'd  fall  off,  and 


DANIEL  o'rOURKE.  107 

I'll  fly  you  out  of  the  bog.'  ^I  am  afraid,'  says  I,  *your 
honour's  makino;  game  of  me;  for  who  ever  heard  of  riding 
a  horseback  on  an  eagle  before?  ''Pon  the  honour  of  a 
gentleman,'  says  he,  putting  his  right  foot  on  his  breast,  «I 
am  quite  in  earnest;  and  so  now  either  take  my  offer  or 
starve  in  the  bog — besides,  I  see  that  your  weight  is  sink- 
ing the  stone.' 

"It  was  true  enough  as  he  said,  for  I  found  the  stone 
every  minute  going  from  under  me.  I  had  no  choice;  so 
thinks  I  to  myself,  faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady,  and  this 
is  fair  persuadance: — *  I  thank  your  honour,'  says  I,  *for  the 
loan  of  your  civility;  and  I'll  take  your  kind  offer.'  I 
therefore  mounted  upon  the  back  of  the  eagle,  and  held 
him  tight  enough  by  the  throat,  and  up  he  flew  in  the  air 
like  a  lark.  Little  1  knew  the  trick  he  was  going  to  serve 
me.      Up — up — up — I    know   not  how    far   up   he   flew. 

"  'Why,  then,'  said  I  to  him, — thinking  he  did  not  know 
the  right  road  home — very  civilly,  because  why? — 1  was 
in  his  power  entirely; — '  sir,'  says  I,  *  please  your  honour's 
glory,  and  with  humble  submission  to  your  better  judg- 
ment, if  you'd  fly  down  a  bit,  you're  now  just  over  my 
cabin,  and  I  could  put  down  there,  and  many  thanks  to 
your  worship.' 

"*.^rm/i,  Dan,'  said  he,  *do  you  think  me  a  fool?  Look 
down  in  the  next  field,  and  don't  you  see  two  men  and  a 
gun?  By  my  word  it  would  be  no  joke  to  be  shot  this 
way,  to  oblige  a  drunken  blackguard  that  I  picked  upoffof  a 
cowld  stone  in  a  bog.'  'Bother  you,'  said  1  to  myself,  but  I 
did  not  speak  out,  for  where  was  the  use?  Well,  sir,  up 
he  kept,  flying,  flying,  and  I  asking  him  every  minute  to 
fly  down,  and  all  to  no  use.  '  Where  in  the  world  are  you 
going,  sir?'  says  I  to  him.  '  Hold  your  tongue,  Dan,'  says 
he:  'mind  your  own  business,  and  don't  be  interfering  with 
the  business  of  other  people.'  '  Faith,  this  is  my  business, 
1  think,'  says  1.  'Be  quiet,  Dan,'  says  he:  so  I  said  no 
more. 

"At  last,  where  should  we  come  to,  but  to  the  moon 
itself.     Now  you  can't  see  it  from  this,  but  there  is,  or 
there  was  in  my  time,  a  reaping-hook  sticking  out  of  the 
side  of  the  moon,  this  way,  (drawing  the  figure  thus  C"\ 
on  the  ground  with  the  end  of  his  stick.) 

Dan,'  said  the  eagle,  'I'm  tired  with  this  long  fly; 


a  i 


108  DANIEL  o'kOURKE. 

I  had  no  notion  'twas  so  far.'  <  And  my  lord,  sir,'  said  I, 
'who  in  the  world  axed  you  to  fly  so  far — was  it  I?  did 
not  I  beg,  and  pray,  and  beseech  you  to  stop  half  an  hour 
ago?'  *  There's  no  use  talking,  Dan,'  said  he;  'I'm  tired 
bad  enough,  so  you  must  get  off,  and  sit  down  on  the  moon 
until  I  rest  myself.'  'Is  it  sit  down  on  the  moon?'  said  I; 
'is  it  upon  that  little  round  thing,  then?  why,  then,  sure 
I'd  fall  off  in  a  minute,  and  be  kilt  and  split,  and  smashed 
all  to  bits:  you  are  a  vile  deceiv^er, — so  you  are.'  'Not  at 
all,  Dan,'  said  he:  '  you  can  catch  fast  hold  of  the  reaping- 
hook  that's  sticking  out  of  the  side  of  the  moon,  and  'twill 
keep  you  up.'  'I  won't,  then,'  said  I.  'May  be  not,' 
said  he,  quite  quiet.  'If  you  don't,  my  man,  I  shall  just 
give  you  a  shake,  and  one  slap  of  my  wing,  and  send  you 
down  to  the  ground,  where  every  bone  in  your  body  will 
be  smashed  as  small  as  a  drop  of  dew  on  a  cabbage-leaf  in 
the  morning.'  'Why,  then,  I'm  in  a  fine  way,'  said  I  to 
myself,  'ever  to  have  come  along  with  the  likes  of  you;' 
and  so  giving  him  a  hearty  curse  in  Irish,  for  fear  he'd 
know  what  1  said,  I  got  off  his  back  with  a  heavy  heart, 
took  a  hold  of  the  reaping  hook,  and  sat  down  upon  the 
moon;  and  a  mighty  cold  seat  it  was,  I  can  tell  you  that. 

"  When  he  had  me  there  fairly  landed,  he  turned  about 
on  me,  and  said, '  Good  morning  to  you,  Daniel  O'Rourke,' 
said  he:  'I  think  I've  nicked  you  fairly  now.  You  robbed 
my  nest  last  year,'  ('twas  true  enough  for  him,  but  how  he 
found  it  out  is  hard  to  say,)  'and  in  return  you  are  freely 
welcome  to  cool  your  heels  dangling  upon  the  moon  like 
a  cockthrow.' 

" '  Is  that  all,  and  is  this  the  way  you  leave  me,  you  brute, 
you?'  says  I.  'You  ugly  unnatural  baste,  and  is  this  the 
way  you  serve  me  at  last?  Bad  luck  to  yourself,  with  3^our 
hooked  nose,  and  to  all  your  breed,  you  blackguard,'  'I'was 
all  to  no  manner  of  use:  he  spread  out  his  great  big  wings, 
burst  out  a  laughing,  and  flew  away  like  lightning.  1 
bawled  after  him  to  stop;  but  I  might  have  called  and 
bawled  for  ever,  without  his  minding  me.  Away  he  went, 
and  I  never  saw  him  from  that  day  to  this — sorrow  fly 
away  with  him!  You  may  be  sure  I  was  in  a  disconsolate 
condition,  and  kept  roaring  out  for  the  bare  grief,  when  all 
at  once  a  door  opened  right  in  the  middle  of  tlie  moon,, 
creaking  on  its  hinges  as  if  it  had  not  been  opened  for  a 


b 


DANIEL  o'nOURKE.  109 


month  before.  I  suppose  they  never  thought  of  greasing 
'em,  and  out  there  walks — who  do  you  think  but  the  man 
in  the  moon  himself?     I  knew  him  by  his  bush. 

"'Good  morrow  to  you,  Daniel  O'Rourke/  said  he: 
^How  do  you  do?'  <Very  well,  thank  your  honour,'  said 
I.  *I  hope  your  honour's  well.'  <  What  brought  you 
here,  Dan?'  said  he.  So  I  told  him  how  I  was  a  little 
overtaken  in  liquor  at  the  master's,  and  how  I  was  cast  on 
a  dissolute  island,  and  how  I  lost  my  way  in  the  bog,  and 
how  the  thief  of  an  eagle  promised  to  fly  me  out  of  it,  and 
how  instead  of  that  he  had  flew  me  up  to  the  moon. 

"'Dan,'  said  the  man  in  the  moon,  taking  a  pinch  of 
snuff"  when  1  \yas  done, '  you  must  not  stay  here.'  '  Indeed, 
sir,'  says-  I,  ''tis  much  against  my  will  I'm  here  at  all;  but 
how  am  I  to  go  back?'  'That's  your  business,'  said  he, 
*  Dan:  mine  is  to  tell  you  that  here  you  must  not  slay;  so  be 
off"  in  less  than  no  time.'  'I'm  doing  no  harm,' says  I, 
'only  holding  on  hard  by  the  reaping-hook,  lest  1  fall  off".' 
<  That's  what  you  must  not  do,  Dan,'  says  he.  '  Pray,  sir,' 
says  I,  '  may  1  ask  how  many  you  are  in  family,  that  you 
would  not  give  a  poor  traveller  lodging:  I'm  sure  'tis  not 
so  often  you're  troubled  with  strangers  coming  to  see  you, 
for  'tis  a  long  way.'  '  I'm  by  myself,  Dan,'  says  he;  '  but 
you'd  better  let  go  the  reaping-hook.'  'Indeedj^and  with 
your  leave,'  says  I,  '  I'll  not  let  go  the  grip,  and  ttfe  more 
you  bids  me,  the  more  I  won't  let  go; — so  I  will.'  'You 
had  better,  Dan,' says  he  again.  '  Why,  then,  my  little 
fellow,'  says  I,  taking  the  whole  weight  of  him  with  my 
eye  from  head  to  foot,  'there  are  two  words  to  that  bargain, 
and  I'll  not  budge,  but  you  may  if  you  like.'  ^  We'll  see 
how  that  is  to  be,'  says  he;  and  back  he  went,  giving  the 
door  such  a  great  bang  after  him  (for  it  was  plain  he  was 
huffed),  that  I  thought  the  moon  and  all  would  fall  down 
with  it. 

"  Well,  I  was  preparing  myself  to  try  strength  with  him, 
when  back  again  he  comes,  with  the  kitchen  cleaver  in  his 
hand,  and  without  saying  a  word,  he  gives  two  bangs  to 
the  handle  of  the  reaping-hook  that  was  keeping  me  up, 
and  whap!  it  came  in  two.  '  Good  morning  to  you,  Dan,' 
says  the  spiteful  little  old  blackguard,  when  he  saw  me 
cleanly  falling  down  with  a  bit  of  the  handle  in  my  haad: 
10 


no 

^I  thank  you  for  your  visit,  and  fair  weather  after  j^ou, 
Daniel.'  I  had  not  time  to  make  any  answer  to  him,  for 
I  was  tumbling  over  and  over,  and  rolling  and  rolling  at 
the  rate  of  a  fox-hunt.  'Now  help  me,'  says  I,  'but  this 
is  a  pretty  pickle  for  a  decent  man  to  be  seen  in  at  this 
time  of  night;  1  am  now  sold  fairly/  The  word  was  not 
out  of  my  mouth,  when  whiz!  what  should  fly  by  close  to 
my  ear  but  a  flock  of  wild  geese;  all  the  way  from  my  own 
bog  of  Ballyasheenough,  else  how  should  they  know  me? 
The  ould  gander,  who  was  their  general,  turning  about  his 
head,  cried  out  to  me,  'Is  that  you,  Dan?'  'The  same,' 
said  I,  not  a  bit  daunted  now  at  what  he  said,  for  I  was  by 
this  time  used  to  all  kinds  of  bedevilment,  and,  besides,  I 
knew  him  of  ould.  'Good  morrow  to  you,'  says  he, 
'Daniel  O'Rourke:  how  are  you  in  health  this  morning?' 
'Very  well,  sir,'  says  I, '  I  thank  you  kindly,'  drawing  my 
breath,  for  I  was  mightily  in  want  of  some.  '  I  hope  your 
honour's  the  same.'  'I  think  'tis  falling  you  are,  Daniel,' 
says  he.  'You  may  sa}'-  that,  sir,'  says  I.  'And  where  are 
you  going  all  the  way  so  fast?'  said  the  gander.  So  I  told 
him  how  1  had  taken  the  drop,  and  how  I  came  on  the 
island,  and  how  I  lost  my  way  in  the  bog,  and  how  the 
thief  of  an  eagle  flew  me  up  to  the  moon,  and  how  the  man 
in  the  moon  turned  me  out.  '  Dan,'  said  he, '  I'll  save  you: 
put  out  your  hand  and  catch  me  by  the  leg,  and  I'll  fly 
you  home.'  'Sweet  is  your  hand  in  a  pitcher  of  honey, 
my  jewel,'  says  I,  though  all  the  time  I  thought  in  myself 
that  I  don't  much  trust  you;  but  there  was  no  help,  so  I 
caught  the  gander  by  the  leg,  and  away  I  and  the  other 
geese  flew  afier  him  as  fast  as  hops. 

"  We  flew,  and  we  flew,  and  we  flew,  until  we  came  right 
over  the  wide  ocean.  1  knew  it  well,  for  I  saw  Cape  Clear 
to  my  right  hand,  sticking  up  out  of  the  water.  'Ah!  my 
lord,'  said  I  to  the  goose,  for  I  thought  it  best  to  keep  a 
civil  tongue  in  my  head  any  way, '  fly  to  land  if  you  please.' 
'It  is  impossible,  you  see,  Dan,'  said  he,  'for  awhile,  be- 
cause you  see  we  are  going  to  Arabia.'  'To  Arabia!'  said 
I;  'that's  surely  some  place  in  foreign  parts,  far  away. 
Oh!  Mr.  Goose:  why  then  to  be  sure,  I'm  a  man  to  be 
pitied  among  you.'  *  Whist,  whist,  you  fool,'  said  he, '  hold 
your  tongue;  I  tell  you  Arabia  is  a  very  decent  sort  of  place, 


Ill 

as  like  West  Carbery  as  one  egg  is  like  another,  only  there 
is  a  little  more  sand  there.' 

"  Just  as  we  were  talking,  a  ship  hove  in  sight,  scudding 
so  beautiful  before  the  wind:  ^  Ah!  then,  sir,'  said  I,  ^  will 
you  drop  me  on  the  ship,  if  you  please?'  *  We  are  not  fair 
over  it/  said  he.  '  We  are,'  said  I.  <■  We  are  not,'  said 
he:  ^  U  I  dropped  you  now  you  would  go  splash  into  the 
sea.'  ^I  would  not,'  says  I:  *I  know  better  than  that,  for 
it's  just  clean  under  us,  so  let  me  drop  now  at  once.' 

"*If  you  must,  you  must,'  said  he.  ^  There,  take  your 
own  way;'  and  he  opened  his  claw,  and  indeed  he  was  right 
— sure  enough  I  came  down  plump  into  the  very  bottom 
of  the  salt  sea!  Down  to  the  very  bottom  I  went,  and  I 
gave  myself  up  then  for  ever,  when  a  whale  walked  up  to 
me,  scratching  himself  after  his  night's  sleep,  and  looked 
me  full  in  the  face,  and  never  the  word  did  he  say,  but 
lifting  up  his  tail,  he  splashed  me  all  over  again  with  the 
cold  salt  water,  till  there  wasn't  a  dry  stitch  upon  my  whole 
carcass;  and  1  heard  somebody  saying — 'twas  a  voice  I 
knew  too — ^  Get  up,  you  drunken  brute,  off  of  that;'  and 
with  that  I  woke  up,  and  there  was  Judy  with  a  tub  full 
of  water,  which  she  was  splashing  all  over  me; — for,  rest 
her  soul !  though  she  was  a  good  wife,  she  never  could  bear 
to  see  me  in  drink,  and  had  a  bitter  hand  of  her  own. 

"<Get  up,'  said  she  again:  *and  of  all  places  in  the  pa- 
rish, would  no  place  sarve  your  turn  to  lie  down  upon  but 
under  the  ould  walls  of  Carrigaphooka?  an  uneasy  resting 
I  am  sure  you  had  of  it.'  And  sure  enough  1  had;  for  I 
was  fairly  bothered  out  of  my  senses  with  eagles,  and  men 
of  the  moon,  and  flying  ganders,  and  whales,  driving  me 
through  bogs,  and  up  to  the  moon,  and  down  to  the  bottom 
of  the  green  ocean.  If  1  was  in  drink  ten  times  over,  long 
would  it  be  before  I'd  lie  down  on  the  same  spot  again;  1 
know  that." 


112 


THE  CROOKENED  BACK. 

XVL 

Peggy  Barrett  was  once  tall,  well  shaped,  and  comely. 
She  was  in  her  youth  remarkaljle  for  two  qualities,  not 
often  found  together,  of  being  the  most  thrifty  housewife, 
and  the  best  dancer  in  her  native  village  of  Ballyhooley. 
But  she  is  now  upwards  of  sixty  years  old;  and  during  the 
last  ten  years  of  her  life,  she  has  never  been  able  to  stand  up- 
right. Her  back  is  bent  nearly  to  a  level;  yet  she  has  the 
freest  use  of  all  her  limbs  that  can  be  enjoyed  in  such  a  pos- 
ture; her  health  is  good,  and  her  mind  vigorous;  and,  in  the 
family  of  her  eldest  son,  with  whom  she  has  lived  since  the 
death  of  her  husband,  she  performs  all  the  domestic  services 
which  her  age,  and  the  infirmity  just  mentioned,  allow. 
She  washes  the  potatoes,  makes  the  fire,  sweeps  the  house 
(labours  in  which  she  good-humouredly  says  "she  finds 
her  crooked  back  mighty  convenient"),  plays  with  the 
children,  and  tells  stories  to  the  family  and  their  neigh- 
bouring friends,  who  often  collect  round  her  son's  fire-side 
to  hear  them  during  the  long  winter  evenings.  Her 
powers  of  conversation  are  highly  extolled,  both  for  humour 
and  in  narration;  and  anecdotes  of  droll,  awkward  incidents, 
connected  with  the  posture  in  which  she  has  been  so  long 
fixed,  as  well  as  the  history  of  the  occurrence  to  which 
she  owes  that  misfortune,  are  favourite  topics  of  her  dis- 
course. Among  other  matters,  she  is  fond  of  relating  how, 
on  a  certain  day  at  the  close  of  a  bad  harvest,  when  several 
tenants  of  the  estate  on  which  she  lived  concerted  in  a  field 
a  petition  for  an  abatement  of  rent,  they  placed  the  paper 
on  which  they  wrote  upon  her  back,  which  was  found  no 
very  inconvenient  substitute  for  a  table. 

Peggy,  like  all  experienced  story-tellers,  suited  her  tales, 
both  in  length  and  subject,  to  the  audience  and  the  occasion. 
She  knew  that,  in  broad  daylight,  when  the  sun  shines 
brightly,  and  the  trees  are  budding,  and  the  birds  singing 


THE  CROOKENED  BACK.  113 

around  us,  when  men  and  women,  like  ourselves,  are 
moving  and  speaking,  employed  variously  in  business  or 
amusement;  slie  knew,  in  short  (though  certainly  without 
knowing  or  much  caring  wherefore),  that  when  we  are 
engaged  about  the  realities  of  life  and  nature,  we  want  that 
spirit  of  credulity,  without  which  tales  of  the  deepest  in- 
terest will  lose  their  power.  At  such  times  Peggy  was 
brief,  very  particular  as  to  facts,  and  never  dealt  in  the 
marvellous.  But  round  the  blazing  hearth  of  a  Christmas 
evening,  when  infidelity  is  banished  from  all  companies, 
at  least  in  low  and  simple  life,  as  a  quality,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  out  of  season;  when  the  winds  of  "dark  December'' 
whistled  bleakly  round  the  walls,  and  almost  through  the 
doors  of  the  little  mansion,  reminding  its  inmates,  that  as 
the  world  is  vexed  by  elements  superior  to  human  power, 
so  it  may  be  visited  by  beings  of  a  superior  nature: — at 
such  times  would  Peggy  Barrett  give  full  scope  to  her 
memory,  or  her  imagination,  or  both;  and  upon  one  of  these 
occasions,  she  gave  the  following  circumstantial  account  of 
the  "crookening  of  her  back." 

"  It  was,  of  all  days  in  the  year,  the  day  before  May-day, 
that  1  went  out  to  the  garden  to  weed  the  potatoes.  I 
would  not  have  gone  out  that  day,  but  I  was  dull  in  my- 
self, and  sorrowful,  and  wanted  to  be  alone;  all  the  boys 
and  girls  were  laughing  and  joking  in  the  house,  making 
goaling-balls  and  dressing  out  ribands  for  the  mummers 
next  day.  I  couldn't  bear  it.  'Twas  only  at  the  Easter 
that  was  then  past  (and  that's  ten  years  last  Easter — 1  won't 
forget  the  time,)  that  I  buried  my  poor  man;  and  I  thought 
how  gay  and  joyful  I  was,  many  a  long  year  before  that, 
at  the  May-eve  before  our  wedding,  when  with  Robin  by 
my  side,  I  sat  cutting  and  sewing  the  ribands  for  the  goal- 
ing-ball  I  was  to  give  the  boys  on  the  next  day,  proud  to 
be  preferred  above  all  the  other  girls  of  the  banks  of  the 
Blackvvater,  by  the  handsomest  boy  and  the  best  hurler  in 
the  village;  so  I  left  the  house  and  went  to  the  garden.  I 
staid  there  all  the  day,  and  didn't  come  home  to  dinner. 
I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  somehow  I  continued  on, 
weeding,  and  thinking  sorrowfully  enough,  and  singing 
over  some  of  the  old  songs  that  I  sung  many  and  many  a 
time  in  the  days  that  are  gone,  and  for  them  that  never 

10* 


114  THE  CROOKENED  BACK. 

will  come  back  to  me  to  hear  them*  The  truth  is,  I  hated 
to  go  and  sit  silent  and  mournful  among  the  people  in  the 
house,  that  were  merry  and  young,  and  had  the  best  of 
their  days  before  them.  'Twas  late  before  I  thought  of 
returning  home,  and  I  did  not  leave  the  garden  till  some 
time  after  sunset.  The  moon  was  up;  but  though  there 
wasn't  a  cloud  to  be  seen,  and  though  a  star  was  winking 
here  and  there  in  the  sky,  the  day  wasn't  long  enough  gone 
to  have  it  clear  moonlight;  still  it  shone  enough  to  make 
every  thing  on  one  side  of  the  heavens  look  pale  and  sil- 
very-like; and  the  thin  white  mist  was  just  beginning  to 
creep  along  the  fields.  On  the  other  side,  near  where  the 
sun  was  set,  there  was  more  of  daylight,  and  the  sky  looked 
angry,  red,  and  fiery  through  the  trees,  like  as  if  it  was 
lighted  up  by  a  great  town  burning  below.  Every  thing 
was  as  silent  as  a  churchyard,  only  now  and  then  one  could 
hear  far  off  a  dog  barking,  or  a  cow  lowing  after  being 
milked.  There  wasn't  a  creature  to  be  seen  on  the  road 
or  in  the  fields.  I  wondered  at  this  first,  but  then  I  re- 
membered it  was  May-eve,  and  that  many  a  thing,  both 
good  and  bad,  would  be  wandering  about  that  night,  and 
that  I  ought  to  shun  danger  as  well  as  others.  So  I  walked 
on  as  quick  as  I  could,  and  soon  came  to  the  end  of  the 
demesne  wall,  where  the  trees  rise  high  and  thick  at  each 
side  of  the  road,  and  almost  meet  at  the  top.  My  heart 
misgave  me  when  1  got  under  the  shade.  There  was  so 
much  light  let  down  from  the  opening  above,  that  I  could 
see  about  a  stone-throw  before  me.  All  of  a  sudden  I 
heard  a  rustling  among  the  branches,  on  the  right  side  of 
the  road,  and  saw  something  like  a  small  black  goat,  only 
with  Ions  wide  horns  turned  out  instead  of  being  bent  back- 
wards,  standing  upon  its  hind  legs  upon  the  top  of  the  wall, 
and  looking  down  on  me.  My  breath  was  stopped,  and  I 
couldn't  move  for  near  a  minute.  1  couldn't  help,  some- 
how, keeping  my  eyes  fixed  on  it;  and  it  never  stirrei),  but 
kept  looking  in  the  same  fixed  way  down  at  me.  At  last 
I  made  a  rush,  and  went  on;  but  1  didn't  go  ten  steps,  when 
I  saw  the  very  same  sight,  on  the  wall  to  the  left  of  me, 
standing  in  exactly  the  same  manner,  but  three  or  four 
times  as  high,  and  almost  as  tall  as  the  tallest  man.  The 
horns  looked  frightful;  it  gazed  upon  me  as  before;  my  legs 


THE  CROOKENED  BACK.  115 

shook,  and  my  teeth  chattered,  and  I  thought  I  would  drop 
down  dead  every  moment.  At  last  I  felt  as  if  I  was  obliged 
to  go  on — and  on  I  went;  but  it  was  without  feeling  how  I 
moved,  or  whether  mj^  legs  carried  me.  Just  as  I  passed 
the  spot  where  this  frightful  thing  was  standing,  I  heard  a 
noise  as  if  something  sprung  from  the  wall,  and  felt  like  as 
if  a  heavy  animal  plumped  down  upon  me,  and  held  with 
the  fore  feet  clinging  to  my  shoulder,  and  the  hind  ones 
fixed  in  my  gown,  that  was  folded  and  pinned  up  behind 
me.  'Tis  the  wonder  of  my  life  ever  since  how  I  bore  the 
shock;  but  so  it  was,  I  neither  fell,  nor  even  staggered  with 
the  weight,  but  walked  on  as  if  I  had  the  strength  of  ten 
men,  though  1  felt  as  if  I  couldn't  help  moving,  and  couldn't 
stand  still  if  I  wished  it.  Though  I  gasped  with  fear,  I 
knew  as  well  as  I  do  now  what  I  was  doing.  I  tried  to 
cry  out,  but  couldn't;  1  tried  to  run,  but  wasn't  able;  I 
tried  to  look  back,  but  my  head  and  neck  were  as  if  they 
were  screwed  in  a  vice.  I  could  barely  roll  my  eyes  on 
each  side,  and  then  1  could  see,  as  clearly  and  plainly  as  if 
it  was  in  the  broad  light  of  the  blessed  sun,  a  black  an-d 
cloven  foot  planted  upon  each  of  my  shoulders.  I  heard  a 
low  breathing  in  my  ear;  I  felt  at  every  step  I  took,  my 
leg  strike  back  against  the  feet  of  the  creature  that  was  on 
my  back.  Still  I  could  do  nothing  but  walk  straight  on. 
At  last  I  came  within  sight  of  the  house,  and  a  welcome 
sight  it  was  to  me,  for  I  thought  I  would  be  released  when 
I  reached  it.  1  soon  came  close  to  the  door,  but  it  was 
shut;  I  looked  at  the  little  window,  but  it  was  shut  too,  for 
t.hey  were  more  cautious  about  May-eve  than  1  was;  I  saw 
the  light  inside,  through  the  chinks  of  the  door;  I  heard 
'em  talking  and  laughing  within;  I  felt  myself  at  three 
yards'  distance  from  them  that  would  die  to  save  rr.e; — and 
may  the  Lord  save  me  from  ever  again  feeling  what  1  did 
that  night,  when  I  found  myself  held  by  what  couldn't  be 
good  nor  friendly,  but  without  the  power  to  help  myself, 
or  to  call  my  friends,  or  to  put  out  my  hand  to  knock,  or 
even  to  lift  my  leg  to  strike  the  door,  and  let  them  know 
that  I  was  outside  it!  'Twas  as  if  my  hands  grew  to  my 
sides,  and  my  feet  were,  glued  to  the  ground,  or  had  the 
weight  of  a  rock  fixed  to  them.  At  last  I  thought  of  bless- 
ing myself;  and  my  right  hand,  that  would  do  nothing  else,, 


116  THE  CROOKENED  BACK. 

did  that  for  me.  Still  the  weight  remained  on  my  back, 
and  all  was  as  before.  I  blessed  myself  again:  'twas  still 
all  the  same.  I  then  gave  myself  up  for  lost:  but  I  blessed 
myself  a  third  time,  and  my  hand  no  sooner  finished  the 
sign,  than  all  at  once  I  felt  the  burden  spring  off  of  my 
back;  the  door  flew  open  as  if  a  clap  of  thunder  burst  it, 
and  I  was  pitched  forward  on  my  forehead,  in  upon  the 
middle  of  the  floor.  When  I  got  up  my  back  was  crook- 
ened,  and  1  never  stood  straight  from  that  night  to  this 
blessed  hour." 

There  was  a  pause  when  Peggy  Barrett  finished.  Those 
who  heard  the  story  before  had  listened  with  a  look  of 
half-satisfied  interest,  blended,  however,  with  an  expression 
of  that  serious  and  solemn  feeling,  which  always  attends  a 
tale  of  supernatural  wonders,  how  often  soever  told.  They 
moved  upon  their  seats  out  of  the  posture  in  which  they 
had  remained  fixed  during  the  narrative,  and  sat  in  an  atti- 
tude which  denoted  that  their  curiosity  as  to  the  cause  of 
this  strange  occurrence  had  been  long  since  allayed.  Those 
to  whom  it  was  before  unknown  still  retained  their  look 
and  posture  of  strained  attention,  and  anxious  but  solemn 
expectation.  A  grandson  of  Peggy's,  about  nine  years 
old  (not  the  child  of  the  son  with  whom  she  lived,)  had 
never  before  heard  the  story.  As  it  grew  in  interest,  he 
was  observed  to  cling  closer  and  closer  to  the  old  woman's 
side;  and  at  the  close  he  was  gazing  steadfastly  at  her,  with 
his  body  bent  back  across  her  knees,  and  his  face  turned 
up  to  hers,  with  a  look,  through  which  a  disposition  to 
weep  seemed  contending  with  curiosity.  After  a  moment's 
pause,  he  could  no  longer  restrain  his  impatience,  and 
catching  her  gray  locks  in  one  hand,  while  a  tear  of  dread 
and  wonder  was  just  dropping  from  his  eye-lash,  he  cried, 
*' Granny,  what  was  it?" 

The  old  woman  smiled  first  at  the  elder  part  of  her  au- 
dience, and  then  at  her  grandson,  and  patting  him  on  the 
forehead,  she  said,  "  It  was  the  Phooka." 


The  Pouke  or  Phooka,  as  the  word  is  pronounced,  means,  in  plain 
terms,  the  Evil  One.  "  Playing  the  puck,"  a  common  Anglo-Irish 
phrase,  is  equivalent  to  *'  playing  the  devil."  Much  learning  has 
been  displayed  in  tracing  this  word  through  various  languages,  vide 
Quarterly  Review  [vol.  xxii.  &c.]  The  commentators  on  Shakspeare 
derive  the  beautiful  and  frolicksome  Puck  of  the  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  from  the  mischievous  Pouke. — Vide  Drayton's  Nymphidia, 

"This  Puck  seems  but  a  dreaming  dolt. 
Still  walking  like  a  ragged  colt,"  &c. 

In  Gelding's  translation  of  Ovid's  Metamorphoses  (1587)  we  find, 

" and  the  countrie  where  Chgmsera,  that  same  Pooke^ 

Hath  goatish  bodie,"  &c. 


The  Irish  Phooka,  in  its  nature,  perfectly  resembles  the  Mahr; 
and  we  have  only  to  observe,  that  there  is  a  particular  German  tra- 
dition of  a  spirit,  which  sits  among  reeds  and  alder  bushes ;  and 
which,  like  the  Phooka,  leaps  upon  the  back  of  those  who  pass  by 
in  the  night,  and  does  not  leave  them  till  they  faint  and  fall  to  the 
earth.  The  Brothers  Geimih. 


THIERNA    NA    OGE 


On  Lough-Neagh's  bank,  as  the  fisherman  strays, 
When  the  clear  cold  eve's  declining, 
He  sees  the  round  towers  of  other  days 
In  the  wave  beneath  iiim  shining." 

Moore. 


FIOR    USGA. 


XVII. 

A  LITTLE  way  beyond  the  Gallows  Green  of  Cork,  and 
just  outside  the  town,  there  is  a  great  lough  of  water,  where 
people  in  the  winter  go  and  skate  for  tlie  sake  of  diversion; 
but  the  sport  above  the  water  is  nothing  to  what  is  under 
it,  for  at  the  very  bottom  of  this  lough  there  are  buildings 
and  gardens,  far  more  beautiful  than  any  now  to  be  seen, 
and  how  they  came  there  was  in  this  manner. 

Long  before  Saxon  foot  pressed  Irish  ground,  there  was 
a  great  king  called  Core,  whose  palace  stood  where  the 
lough  now  is,  in  a  round  green  valley,  that  was  just  a  mile 
about.  In  the  middle  of  the  court-yard  was  a  spring  of 
fair  water,  so  pure,  and  so  clear,  that  it  was  the  wonder  of 
all  the  world.     Much  did  the  king  rejoice  at  having  so 


120  FIOR  USGA. 

great  a  curiosity  within  his  palace;  but  as  people  came  in 
crowds  from  far  and  near  to  draw  the  precious  water  of 
this  spring,  he  was  sorely  afraid  that  in  time  it  might  be- 
come dry;  so  he  caused  a  high  wall  to  be  built  up  round  it, 
and  would  allow  nobody  to  have  the  water,  which  was  a 
very  great  loss  to  the  poor  people  living  about  the  palace. 
Whenever  he  wanted  any  for  himself,  he  would  send  his 
daughter  to  get  it,  not  liking  to  trust  his  servants  with  the 
key  of  the  well-door,  fearing  that  they  might  give  some 
away. 

One  night  the  king  gave  a  grand  entertainment,  and  there 
were  many  great  princes  present,  and  lords  and  nobles 
without  end ;  and  there  were  wonderful  doings  throughout 
the  palace:  there  were  bonfires,  whose  blaze  reached  up  to 
the  very  sky;  and  dancing  was  there,  to  such  sweet  music, 
that  it  ought  to  have  waked  up  the  dead  out  of  their  graves; 
and  feasting  was  there  in  the  greatest  of  plenty  for  all  who 
came;  nor  was  any  one  turned  away  from  the  palace  gates — 
but  "you're  welcome — ^you're  welcome,  heartily,"  was  the 
porter's  salute  for  all. 

Now  it  happened  at  this  grand  entertainment  there  was 
one  young  prince  above  all  the  rest  mighty  comely  to  be- 
hold, and  as  tall  and  as  straight  as  ever  e3^e  would  wish  to 
look  on.  Right  merrily  did  he  dance  that  night  with  the 
old  king's  daughter,  wheeling  here,  and  wheeling  there,  as 
light  as  a  feather,  and  footing  it  away  to  the  admiration  of 
every  one.  The  musicians  played  the  better  for  seeing 
their  dancing;  and  they  danced  as  if  their  lives  depended 
upon  it.  After  all  this  dancing  came  the  supper;  and  the 
young  prince  was  seated  at  table  by  the  side  of  his  beauti- 
ful partner,  who  smiled  upon  him  as  often  as  he  spoke  to 
her;  and  that  was  by  no  means  so  often  as  he  wished,  for 
he  had  constantly  to  turn  to  the  company  and  thank  them 
for  the  many  compliments  passed  upon  hi§  fair  partner  and 
himself. 

in  the  midst  of  this  banquet,  one  of  the  great  lords  said 
to  King  Core,  "  May  it  please  your  majesty,  here  is  every 
thing  in  abundance  that  heart  can  wish  for,  both  to  eat  and 
drink,  except  water." 

"Water!"  said  the  king,  mightily  pleased  at  some  one 
calling  for   that  of  which   purposely  there  was  a  want: 


riOR  USGA.  121 

"water  shall  you  have,  my  lord,  speedily,  and  that  of  such 
a  delicious  kind,  that  I  challenge  all  the  world  to  equal  it. 
Daughter,"  said  he,  "go  fetch  some  in  the  golden  vessel 
which  I  caused  to  be  made  for  the  purpose." 

The  king's  daughter,  who  was  called  Fior  Usga,  (which 
signifies,  in  English,  Spring  Water,)  did  not  much  like  to 
be  told  to  perform  so  menial  a  service  before  so  many  peo- 
ple, and  though  she  did  not  venture  to  refuse  the  commands 
of  her  father,  yet  hesitated  to  obey  him,  and  looked  down 
upon  the  ground.  The  king,  who  loved  his  daughter  very 
much,  seeing  this,  was  sorry  for  what  he  had  desired  her 
to  do,  but  having  said  tlie  word,  he  was  never  known  to 
recall  it;  he  therefore  thought  of  a  way  to  make  his  daugh- 
ter go  speedily  and  fetch  the  water,  and  it  was  by  pro- 
posing that  the  young  prince  her  partner  should  go  along 
with  her.  Accordingly,  with  a  loud  voice,  he  said,  "Daugh- 
ter, I  wonder  not  at  your  fearing  to  go  alone  so  late  at 
night;  but  I  doubt  not  the  young  prince  at  your  side  will 
go  with  you."  The  prince  was  not  displeased  at  hearing 
this;  and  taking  the  golden  vessel  in  one  hand,  with  the 
other  led  the  king's  daughter  out  of  the  hall  so  gracefully 
that  all  present  gazed  after  them  with  delight. 

When  they  came  to  the  spring  of  water,  in  the  court- 
yard of  the  palace,  the  fair  Usga  unlocked  the  door  with 
the  greatest  care,  and  stooping  down  with  the  golden  vessel 
to  take  some  of  the  water  out  of  the  well,  found  the  vessel 
so  heavy  that  she  lost  her  balance  and  fell  in.  The3'oung 
prince  tried  in  vain  to  save  her,  for  the  water  rose  and  rose 
so  fast,  that  the  entire  court-yard  was  speedily  covered 
with  it,  and  he  hastened  back  almost  in  a  state  of  distrac- 
tion to  the  king. 

The  door  of  the  well  being  left  open,  the  water,  which 
had  been  so  long  confined,  rejoiced  at  obtaining  its  liberty, 
rushed  forth  incessantly,  every  moment  rising  higher  and 
higher,  and  was  in  the  hall  of  the  entertainment  sooner 
than  the  young  prince  himself,  so  that  when  he  attempted 
to  speak  to  the  king  he  was  up  to  his  neck  in  water.  At 
length  the  water  rose  to  such  a  height,  that  it  filled  the 
entire  of  the  green  valley  in  which  the  king's  palace  stood, 
and  so  the  present  lough  of  Cork  was  formed. 

Yet  the  king  and  his  guests  were  not  drowned,  as  would 
11 


123  CORMAC  AND  MARY. 

now  happen,  if  such  an  awful  inundation  were  to  take 
place;  neither  was  his  daughter,  the  fair  Usga,  who  re- 
turned to  the  banquet-hall  the  very  next  night  after  this 
dreadful  event;  and  every  night  since  the  same  entertain- 
ment and  dancing  goes  on  in  the  palace  at  the  bottom  of 
the  lough,  and  will  last  until  some  one  has  the  luck  to 
bring  up  out  of  it  the  golden  vessel  which  was  the  cause 
of  all  this  mischief. 

Nobody  can  doubt  that  it  was  a  judgment  upon  the  king 
for  his  sliutting  up  the  well  in  the  court-yard  from  the  poor 
people:  and  if  there  are  any  who  do  not  credit  my  story, 
they  may  go  and  see  the  lough  of  Cork,  for  there  it  is  to 
be  seen  to  this  day;  the  road  to  Kinsale  passes  at  one  side 
of  it;  and  when  its  waters  are  low  and  clear,  the  tops  of 
towers  and  stately  buildings  may  be  plainly  viewed  in  the 
bottom  by  those  who  have  good  eyesight,  without  the  help 
of  spectacles. 


CORMAC   AND   MARY. 


XVIII. 


"She  is  not  dead — she  has  no  grave — 
She  lives  beneath  Lough  Corrib's  water; 

And  in  the  murmur  of  each  wave 

Methinks  I  catch  the  songs  1  taught  her.' 

Thus  many  an  evening  on  the  shore 
Sat  Cormac  raving  wild  and  lowlj^; 

*  In  the  county  of  GaUvay. 


CORMAC  AND  MARY.  123 

Still  idly  muttering  o'er  and  o'er, 

"  She  lives,  detain'd  by  spells  unholy. 

"Death  claims  her  not,  too  fair  for  earth, 

Her  spirit  lives — alien  of  heaven; 
Nor  will  it  know  a  second  birth 

When  sinful  mortals  are  forgiven! 

"Cold  is  this  rock — the  wind  comes  chill, 
And  mists  the  gloomy  waters  cover; 

But  oh!  her  soul  is  colder  still — 

To  lose  her  God — to  leave  her  lover!" 

The  lake  was  in  profound  repose, 

Yet  one  white  wave  came  gently  curling. 

And  as  it  reach'd  the  shore,  arose 
Dim  figures — banners  gay  unfurling. 

Onward  they  move,  an  airy  crowd: 

Through  each  thin  form  a  moonlight  ray  shone; 
While  spear  and  helm,  in  pageant  proud, 

Appear  in  liquid  undulation. 

Bright  barbed  steeds  curvetting  tread 
Their  trackless  way  with  antic  capers; 

And  curtain  clouds  hang  overhead, 

Festoon'd  by  rainbow-colour'd  vapours. 

And  when  a  breath  of  air  would  stir 

That  drapery  of  Heaven's  own  wreathing, 

Light  wings  of  prismy  gossamer 

Just  moved  and  sparkled  to  the  breathing. 

Nor  wanting  was  the  choral  song. 

Swelling  in  silvery  chimes  of  sweetness; 

To  sound  of  which  this  subtile  throng 
Advanced  in  playful  grace  and  fleetness. 

With  music's  strain,  all  came  and  went 
Upon  poor  Cormac's  doubting  vision; 

Now  rising  in  wild  merriment. 
Now  softly  fading  in  derision. 


\ 


124  LEGEND  OF  LOUGH  GUR. 

"Christ  save  her  soul,'^  he  boldly  cried; 

And  when  that  blessed  name  was  spoken, 
Fierce  yells  and  fiendish  shrieks  replied, 

And  vanished  all, — the  spell  was  broken. 

And  now  on  Corrib's  lonely  shore, 

Freed  by  his  word  from  power  of  faery, 

To  life,  to  love,  restored  once  more, 

l^oung  Cormac  welcomes  back  his  Mary. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  LOUGH  GUR. 

XIX. 

Larry  Cotter  had  a  farm  on  one  side  of  Lough  Gur,* 
and  was  thriving  in  it,  for  he  was  an  industrious  proper 
sort  of  man,  who  would  have  lived  quietly  and  soberly  to 
the  end  of  his  days,  but  for  the  misfortune  that  came  upon 
him,  and  you  shall  hear  how  that  was.  He  had  as  nice  a 
bit  of  meadow-land,  down  by  the  water-side,  as  ever  a  man 
would  wish  for;  but  its  growth  was  spoiled  entirely  on 
him,  and  no  one  could  tell  how\ 

One  year  after  the  other  it  was  ai!  ruined  just  in  the  same 
way:  the  bounds  were  well  made  up,  and  not  a  stone  of 

*  In  the  county  of  Limerick. 


LEGEND  OF  LOUGH  GUR.  125 

them  was  disturbed;  neither  could  his  neighbours'  cattle 
have  been  guilty  of  the  trespass,  for  they  were  spancelled;* 
but  however  it  was  done,  the  grass  of  the  meadow  was 
destroyed,  which  was  a  great  loss  to  Larry. 

"What  in  the  wide  world  will  I  do?''  said  Larry  Cotter 
to  his  neighbour,  Tom  Welsh,  who  was  a  very  decent  sort 
of  man  himself:  "that  bit  of  meadow-land,  which  I  am 
paying  the  great  rent  for,  is  doing  nothing  at  all  to  make 
it  for  me;  and  the  times  are  bitter  bad,  without  the  help  of 
that  to  make  them  worse." 

"  'Tis  true  for  you,  Larry,"  replied  Welsh:  "the  times 
are  bitter  bad — no  doubt  of  that;  but  may  be  if  you  were 
to  watch  by  night,  you  might  make  out  all  about  it:  sure 
there's  Mick  and  Terry,  my  two  boys,  will  watch  with 
you;  for  'tis  a  thousand  pities  any  honest  man  like  you 
should  be  ruined  in  such  a  scheming  way." 

Accordingly,  the  following  night,  Larry  Cotter,  with 
Welsh's  two  sons,  took  their  station  in  a  corner  of  the 
meadow.  It  was  just  at  the  full  of  the  moon,  which  was 
shining  beautifully  down  upon  the  lake,  that  was  as  calm 
all  over  as  the  sky  itself;  not  a  cloud  was  there  to  be  seen 
any  where,  nor  a  sound  to  be  heard,  but  the  cry  of  the 
corncreaks  answering  one  another  across  the  water. 

"Boys!  boys!"  said  Larry,  "look  there!  look  there!  but 
for  your  lives  don't  make  a  bit  of  noise,  nor  stir  a  step  till 
I  say  the  word." 

They  looked,  and  saw  a  great  fat  cow,  followed  by  seven 
milk-white  heifers,  moving  on  the  smooth  surface  of  the 
lake  towards  the  meadow. 

"  'Tis  not  Tim  Dwyer  the  piper's  cow,  any  way,  that 
danced  all  the  flesh  off  her  bones,"  whispered  Mick  to  his 
brother. 

"Now  boys!"  said  Larry  Cotter,  when  he  saw  the  fine 
cow  and  her  seven  white  heifers  fairly  in  the  meadow, 
"get  between  them  and  the  lake  if  you  can,  and,  no  matter 
who  they  belong  to,  we'll  just  put  them  into  the  pound." 

But  the  cow  must  have  overheard  Larry  speaking,  for 
down  she  went  in  a  great  hurry  to  the  shore  of  the  lake, 
and  into  it  with  her,  before  all  their  eyes:  away  made  the 
seven  heifers  after  her,  but  the  boys  got  down  to  the  bank 

*  Spancelled — fettered, 
11^ 


126  THE  ENCHANTED  LAKE. 

before  them,  and  work  enough  they  had  to  drive  them  up 
from  the  lake  to  Larry  Cotter. 

Larry  drove  the  seven  heifers,  and  beautiful  beasts  they 
were,  to  the  pound:  but  after  he  had  them  there  for  three 
days,  and  could  hear  of  no  owner,  he  took  them  out,  and 
put  them  up  in  a  field  of  his  own.  There  he  kept  them, 
and  they  were  thriving  mighty  well  with  him,  until  one 
night  the  gate  of  the  field  was  left  open,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing the  seven  heifers  were  gone.  Larry  could  not  get  any 
account  of  them  after;  and,  beyond  all  doubt,  it  was  back 
into  the  lake  they  went.  Wherever  they  came  from,  or 
to  whatever  world  they  belonged,  Larry  Cotter  never  had 
a  crop  of  grass  off  the  meadow  through  their  means.  So 
he  took  to  drink,  fairly  out  of  the  griefj  and  it  was  the 
drink  that  killed  him,  they  say. 


THE   ENCHANTED  LAKE. 

XX. 

In  the  west  of  Ireland  there  was  a  lake,  and  no  doubt 
it  is  there  still,  in  which  many  young  men  had  been  at 
various  times  drowned.  What  made  the  circumstance  re- 
markable was,  that  the  bodies  of  the  drowned  persons  were 
never  found.  People  naturally  wondered  at  this:  and  at 
length  the  lake  came  to  have  a  bad  repute.  Many  dreadful 
stories  were  told  about  that  lake;  some  would  affirm,  that 
on  a  dark  night  its  waters  appeared  like  fire — others  would 
speak  of  horrid  forms  which  were  seen  to  glide  over  it; 
and  every  one  agreed  that  a  strange  sulphureous  smell  is- 
sued from  out  of  it. 


THE  ENCHANTED  LAKE.  127 

There  lived,  not  far  distant  from  this  lake  a  young 
farmer,  named  Roderick  Keating,  who  was  about  to  be 
married  to  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  that  part  of  the 
country.  On  his  return  from  Limerick,  where  he  had 
been  to  purchase  the  wedding-ring,  he  came  up  with  two 
or  three  of  his  acquaintance,  who  were  standing  on  the 
shore,  and  they  began  to  joke  with  him  about  Peggy  Ho- 
nan.  One  said  that  young  Delaney,  his  rival,  had  in  his 
absence  contrived  to  win  the  affection  of  his  mistress: — 
but  Roderick's  confidence  in  his  intended  bride  was  too 
great  to  be  disturbed  at  this  tale,  and  putting  his  hand  in 
his  pocket,  he  produced  and  held  up  with  a  significant  look 
the  wedding-ring.  As  he  was  turning  it  between  his  fore- 
finger and  thumb,  in  token  of  triumph,  somehow  or  other 
the  ring  fell  from  his  hand,  and  rolled  into  the  lake:  Ro- 
derick looked  after  it  with  the  greatest  sorrow;  it  was  not 
so  much  for  its  value,  though  it  had  cost  him  half-a-guinea, 
as  for  the  ill-luck  of  the  thing;  and  the  water  was  so  deep, 
that  there  was  little  cliance  of  recovering  it.  His  compa- 
nions laughed  at  him,  and  he  in  vain  endeavoured  to  tempt 
any  of  them  by  the  offer  of  a  handsome  reward  to  dive 
after  the  ring:  tiiey  were  ail  as  little  inclined  to  venture  as 
Roderick  Keating  himself;  for  the  tales  which  they  had 
heard  when  cliildren  were  strongly  impressed  on  their 
memories,  and  a  superstitious  dread  filled  the  mind  of  each. 

"  Must  I  tl^en  go  back  to  Limerick  to  buy  another  ring?" 
exclaimed  the  young  farmer.  "Will  not  ten  times  what  the 
ring  cost  tempt  any  one  of  you  to  venture  after  it.^'^ 

There  was  within  hearing  a%ian  who  was  considered  to 
be  a  poor,  crazy,  half-witted  fellow,  but  he  was  as  harmless 
as  a  child,  and  used  to  go  wandering  up  and  down  through 
the  country  from  one  place  to  another.  When  he  heard  of 
so  great  a  reward,  Paddeen,  for  that  was  his  name,  spoke 
out,  and  said,  that  if  Roderick  Keating  would  give  him 
encouragement  equal  to  what  he  had  offered  to  others,  he 
was  ready  to  venture  after  the  ring  into  the  lake;  and 
Paddeen,  all  the  while  he  spoke,  looked  as  covetous  after 
the  sport  as  the  money. 

"I'll  take  you  at  your  word,"  said  Keating.  '  So  Pad-" 
deen  pulled  off  his  coat,  and  without  a  single  syllable  more, 
down  he  plunged,  head  foremost,  into  the  lake:  what 
depth  he  went  to,  no  one  can  tell  exactly;  but  he  was  go- 


128  THE  ENCHANTED  LAKE. 

ing,  going,  going  down  through  the  water,  until  the  water 
parted  from  him,  and  he  came  upon  the  dry  land;  the  sky, 
and  the  light,  and  every  thing,  was  there  just  as  it  is  here; 
and  he  saw  fine  pleasure-grounds,  with  an  elegant  avenue 
through  them,  and  a  grand  house,  with  a  power  of  steps 
going  up  to  the  door.  When  he  had  recovered  from  his 
wonder  at  finding  the  land  so  dry  and  comfortable  under 
the  water,  he  looked  about  him,  and  what  should  he  see 
but  all  the  young  men  that  were  drowned  working  away 
in  the  pleasure-grounds  as  if  nothing  had  ever  happened  to 
them!  Some  of  them  were  mowing  down  the  grass,  and 
more  were  settling  out  the  gravel  walks,  and  doing  all 
manner  of  nice  work,  as  neat  and  as  clever  as  if  they  had 
never  been  drowned;  and  they  were  singing  away  with 
high  glee: — 

"  She  is  fair  as  Cappoquin; 

Have  you  courage  her  to  win] 

And  her  wealth  it  far  outshines 

Cullen's  bog  and  Silvermines. 

She  exceeds  all  heart  can  wish ; 

Not  brawling  like  the  Foherish, 

But  as  the  brightly  flowing  Lee, 

Graceful,  mild,  and  pure  is  she!" 

Well,  Paddeen  could  not  but  look  at  the  young  men,  for 
he  knew  some  of  them  before  they  were  lost  in  the  lake; 
but  he  said  nothing,  though  he  thought  a  great  deal  more 
for  all  that,  like  an  oyster: — no,  not  the  wind  of  a  word 
passed  his  lips;  so  on  he  went  towards  the  big  house,  bold 
enough,  as  if  he  had  seen  nothing  to  speak  of;  yet  all  the 
time  mightily  wishing  to  know  who  the  young  woman 
could  be  that  the  young  men  were  singing  the  song  about. 

When  he  had  nearly  reached  the  door  of  the  great  house, 
out  walks  from  the  kitchen  a  powerful  fat  woman,  moving 
along  like  a  beer-barrel  on  two  legs,  with  teeth  as  big  as 
horses'  teeth,  and  up  she  made  towards  him. 

"  Good  morrow,  Paddeen,"  said  she. 

"  Good  morrow,  Ma'am,''  said  he. 

"What  brought  you  here?"  said  she. 

"'Tis  after  Rory  Keating's  gold  ring,"  said  he,  "Pm 
come." 

"  Here  it  is  for  you,"  said  Paddeen's  fat  friend,  with  a 
smile  on  her  face  that  moved  like  boiling  stirabout  [gruel,] 

"Thank  you,  Ma'am,"  replied  Paddeen,  taking  it  from 


THE  ENCHANTED  LAKE.  •     129 

her: — "I  need  not  say  the  Lord  increase  you,  for  you're 
fat  enough  ah'eady.  Will  you  tell  me,  if  you  please,  am  I 
to  go  hack  the  same  way  1  came?" 

"Then  you  did  not  come  to  marry  me?"  cried  the  cor- 
pulent woman  in  a  desperate  fury. 

"Just  wait  till  I  come  back  again,  my  darling,"  said 
Paddeen:  "I'm  to  be  paid  for  my  message,  and  I  must 
return  with  the  answer,  or  else  they'll  wonder  what  has 
become  of  me." 

"Never  mind  the  money,"  said  the  fat  woman:  "if  you 
marry  me,  you  shall  live  for  ever  and  a  day  in  that  house, 
and  want  for  nothing." 

Paddeen  saw  clearly  that,  having  got  possession  of  the 
ring,  the  fat  woman  had  no  power  to  detain  him;  so  with- 
out minding  any  thing  she  said,  he  kept  moving  and  moving 
down  the  avenue,  quite  quietly,  and  looking  about  him; 
for,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  had  no  particular  inclination  to 
marry  a  fat  fairy.  When  he  came  to  the  gate,  without 
ever  saying  good  by,  out  he  bolted,  and  he  found  the  wa- 
ter coming  all  about  him  again.  Up  he  plunged  through 
it,  and  wonder  enough  there  was,  when  Paddeen  was  seen 
swimming  away  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  lake;  but  he 
soon  made  the  shore,  and  told  Roderick  Keating,  and  the 
other  boys  that  were  standing  there  looking  out  for  him,  all 
that  had  happened.  Roderick  paid  him  the  five  guineas  for 
the  ring  on  the  spot;  and  Paddeen  thought  himself  so  rich 
with  such  a  sum  of  money  in  his  pocket,  that  he  did  not 
go  back  to  marry  the  fat  lady  with  the  fine  house  at  the 
bottom  of  the  lake,  knowing  she  had  plenty  of  young  men 
to  choose  a  husband  from,  if  she  pleased  to  be  married. 


130 


THE  LEGEND  OF  O'DONOGHUE. 

XXI. 

In  an  age  so  distant  that  the  precise  period  is  unknown, 
a  chieftain  named  O'Donoghue  ruled  over  the  country 
which  surrounds  the  romantic  Lough  Lean,  now  called 
the  lake  of  Killarney.  Wisdom,  beneficence,  and  justice, 
distinguished  his  reign,  and  the  prosperity  and  happiness  of 
his  subjects  were  their  natural  results.  He  is  said  to  have 
been  as  renowned  for  his  warlike  exploits  as  for  his  pacific 
virtues;  and  as  a  proof  that  his  domestic  administration  was 
not  the  less  rigorous  because  it  was  mild,  a  rocky  island  is 
pointed  out  to  strangers,  called  "O'Donoghue's  Prison,"  in 
which  this  prince  once  confined  his  own  son  for  some  act 
of  disorder  and  disobedience. 

His  end — for  it  cannot  correctly  be  called  his  death — 
was  singular  and  mysterious.  At  one  of  those  splendid 
feasts  for  which  his  court  was  celebrated,  surrounded  by 
the  most  distinguished  of  his  subjects,  he  was  engaged  in  a 
prophetic  relation  of  the  events  which  were  to  happen  in 
ages  yet  to  come.  His  auditors  listened,  now  wrapt  in 
wonder,  now  fired  with  indignation,  burning  with  shame, 
or  melted  into  sorrow,  as  he  faithfully  detailed  the  heroism, 
the  injuries,  the  crimes,  and  the  miseries  of  their  descend- 
ants. In  the  midst  of  his  predictions  he  rose  slowly  from 
his  seat,  advanced  with  a  solemn,  measured,  and  majestic 
tread  to  the  shore  of  the  lake,  and  walked  forward  com- 
posedly upon  its  unyielding  surface.  When  he  had  nearly 
reached  the  centre,  he  paused  for  a  moment,  then  turning 
slowly  round,  looked  towards  his  friends,  and  waving  his 
arms  to  them  with  the  cheerful  air  of  one  taking  a  short 
farewell,  disappeared  from  their  view. 

The  memory  of  the  good  O'Donoghue  has  been  cherished 
by  successive  generations  with  aff'ectioiiate  reverence:  and 
it  is  believed  that  at  sunrise,  on  every  May-dew  morning, 
the  anniversary  of  his  departure,  he  revisits  his  ancient 
domains:  a  favoured  few  only  are  in  general  permitted  to 


LEGEND  OP  o'dONOGHUE.  131 

see  him,  and  this  distinction  is  always  an  omen  of  good 
fortune  to  the  beholders:  when  it  is  granted  to  many,  it  is 
a  sure  token  of  an  abundant  harvest, — a  blessing,  the  want 
of  which  during  this  prince's  reign  was  never  felt  by  his 
people. 

Some  years  have  elapsed  since  the  last  appearance  of 
O'Donoghue.  The  April  of  that  year  had  been  remarka- 
bly wild  and  storm}^;  but  on  May-morning  the  fury  of  the 
elements  had  altogether  subsided.  The  air  was  hushed  and 
still;  and  the  sky,  which  was  reflected  in  the  serene  lake, 
resembled  a  beautiful  but  deceitful  countenance,  whose 
smiles,  after  the  most  tempestuous  emotions,  tempt  the 
stranger  to  believe  that  it  belongs  to  a  soul  which  no  pas- 
sion has  ever  ruffled. 

The  first  beams  of  the  rising  sun  were  just  gilding  the 
lofty  summit  of  Glenaa,  when  the  waters  near  the  eastern 
shores  of  the  lake  became  suddenly  and  violently  agitated, 
though  all  the  rest  of  its  surface  lay  smooth  and  still  as  a 
tomb  of  polished  marble;  the  next  moment  a  foaming  wave 
darted  forward,  and,  like  a  proud  high-crested  war-horse, 
exulting  in  his  strength,  rushed  across  the  lake  towards 
Toomies  mountain.  Behind  this  wave  appeared  a  stately 
warrior  fully  armed,  mounted  upon  a  milk-white  steed; 
his  snowy  plume  waved  gracefully  from  a  helmet  of  po- 
lished steel,  and  at  his  back  fluttered  a  light  blue  scarf. 
The  horse,  apparently  exulting  in  his  noble  burden,  sprang 
after  the  wave  along  the  water,  which  bore  him  up  like 
firm  earth,  while  showers  of  spray  that  glittered  brightly 
in  the  morning  sun  were  dashed  up  at  every  bound. 

The  warrior  was  O'Donoghue;  he  was  followed  by  num- 
berless youths  and  maidens  who  moved  lightly  and  uncon- 
strained over  the  watery  plain,  as  the  moonlight  fairies 
glide  through  the  fields  of  air:  they  were  linked  together 
by  garlands  of  delicious  spring  flowers,  and  they  timed 
their  movements  to  strains  of  enchanting  melody.  When 
O'Donoghue  had  nearly  reached  the  western  side  of  the 
lake,  he  suddenly  turned  his  steed,  and  directed  his  course 
along  the  wood-fringed  shore  of  Glenaa,  preceded  by  the 
huge  wave  that  curled  and  foamed  up  as  high  as  the  horse^s 
neck,  whose  fiery  nostrils  snorted  above  it.  The  long  train 
of  attendants  followed  with  playful  deviations  the  track  of 


132 

their  leader,  and  moved  on  with  unabated  fleetness  to  their 
celestial  music,  till  gradually,  as  they  entered  the  narrow 
strait  between  Glenaa  and  Dinis,  they  became  involved  in 
the  mists  which  still  partially  floated  over  the  lakes,  and 
faded  from  the  view  of  the  wondering  beholders:  but  the 
sound  of  their  music  still  fell  upon  the  ear,  and  echo,  catch- 
ing up  the  harmonious  strains,  fondly  repeated  and  pro- 
longed them  in  soft  and  softer  tones,  till  the  last  faint  repe- 
tition died  away,  and  the  hearers  awoke  as  from  a  dream 
of  bliss. 


Thierna  na  OgCt  or  the  Country  of  Youth,  is  the  name  given  to 
the  foregoing  section,  from  the  belief  that  those  who  dwell  in  re- 
gions of  enchantment  beneath  the  water  are  not  affected  by  the 
movements  of  time. 


LEGENDS    OF   THE   MERKOW. 


•"  The  mysterious  depths 


And  wild  and  wondrous  forms  of  ocean  old." 

Mattima's  Conchologist. 


THE  LADY  OF  GOLLERUS. 


XXII. 

On  the  shore  of  Smerwick  harbour,  one  fine  sumnier's 
morning,  just  at  day-break,  stood  Dick  Fitzgerald  "shogh- 
ing  the  dudeen,"  which  may  be  translated,  smoking  his 
jiipe.  The  sun  was  gradually  rising  behind  the  lofty 
Brandon,  the  dark  sea  was  getting  green  in  the  light,  and 
the  mists,  clearing  away  out  of  the  valleys,  went  rolling 
and  curling  like  the  smoke  from  the  corner  of  Dick's 
mouth. 

"'Tis  just  the  pattern  of  a  pretty  morning,"  said  Dick, 
taking  the  pipe  from  between  his  lips,  and  looking  towards 
the  distant  ocean,  w^hich  lay  as  still  and  tranquil  as  a  tomb 
of  polished  marble.  "Well,  to  be  sure,"  continued  he, 
after  a  pause,  "'tis  mighty  lonesome  to  be  talking  to  one's 
self  by  way  of  company,  and  not  to  have  another  soul  to 
12 


134  THE  LADY  OF  GOLLERUS. 

answer  one — nothing  but  the  child  of  one's  own  voice,  the 
echo!  I  know  this,  that  if  I  had  the  hick,  or  may  be  the 
misfortune,^'  said  Dick  with  a  melancholy  smile,  "to  have 
the  woman,  it  would  not  be  this  way  with  me! — and  what 
in  the  wide  world  is  a  man  without  a  wife?  He's  no  more 
surely  than  a  bottle  without  a  drop  of  drink  in  it,  or  dancing 
without  music,  or  the  left  leg  of  a  scissors,  or  a  fishing  line 
without  a  hook,  or  any  other  matter  that  is  no  ways  com- 
plete— Is  it  not  so?"  said  Dick  Fitzgerald,  casting  his  eyes 
towards  a  rock  upon  the  strand,  which  though  it  could  not 
speak,  stood  up  as  firm  and  looked  as  bold  as  ever  Kerry 
witness  did. 

But  what  was  his  astonishment  at  beholding,  just  at  the 
foot  of  that  rock  a  beautiful  young  creature  combing  her 
hair,  which  was  of  a  sea-green  colour;  and  now  the  salt 
water  shining  on  it,  appeared  in  the  morning  light,  like 
melted  butter  upon  cabbage. 

Dick  guessed  at  once  that  she  was  a  Merrow,  although 
he  had  never  seen  one  before,  for  he  spied  the  cohuleen 
driuth,  or  little  enchanted  cap,  which  the  sea  people  use  for 
diving  down  into  the  ocean,  lying  upon  the  strand,  near 
her;  and  he  had  heard  that  if  once  he  could  possess  himself 
of  the  cap,  she  would  lose  the  power  of  going  away  into 
the  water:  so  he  seized  it  with  all  speed,  and  she,  hearing 
the  noise,  turned  her  head  about  as  natural  as  any  Chris- 
tian. 

When  the  Merrow  saw  that  her  little  diving-cap  was 
gone,  the  salt  tears — doubly  salt,  no  doubt,  from  her- 
came  trickling  down  her  cheeks,  and   she  began  a  low 
mournful  cry  with  just  the  tender  voice  of  a  new-born  in-j 
fant,     Dick,  although  he  knew  well  enough  what  she  was 
crying  for,  determined  to  keep  the  cohuleen  driuth,  let  her' 
cry  never  so  much,  to  see  what  luck  would  come  out  of  it. 
Yet  he  could  not  help  pitying  her,  and  when  the  dumb 
thing  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  her  cheeks  all  moist  with 
tears,  'twas  enough  to  make  any  one  feel  let  alone  Dick, 
who  had  ever  and  always,  like  most  of  his  countrymen,  a 
mighty  tender  heart  of  his  own. 

"Don't  cry,  my  darling,"  said  Dick  Fitzgerald;  but  the 
Merrow,  like  any  bold  child,  only  cried  the  more  for  that, 

Dick  sat  himself  down  by  her  side,  and  took  hold  of  her 


THE  LADY  OF  GOLLERUS.  135 

hand,  by  way  of  comforting  her.  ^Tvvas  in  no  particular 
an  ugly  hand,  only  there  was  a  small  web  between  the  fin- 
gers, as  there  is  in  a  duck's  foot;  but  'twas  as  thin  and  as 
white  as  the  skin  between  egg  and  shell. 

"What's  your  name,  my  darling.?"  says  Dick,  thinking 
to  make  her  conversant  with  him;  but  he  got  no  answer; 
and  he  was  certain  sure  now,  either  that  she  could  not 
speak,  or  did  not  understand  him:  he  therefore  squeezed 
her  hand  in  his,  as  the  only  way  he  had  of  talking  to  her. 
It's  the  universal  language;  and  there's  not  a  woman  in  the 
world,  be  she  fish  or  lady,  that  does  not  understand  it. 

The  Merrow  did  not  seem  much  displeased  at  this  mode 
of  conversation;  and,  making  an  end  of  her  whining  all  at 
once — "  Man,"  says  she,  looiiing  up  in  Dick  Fitzgerald's 
face,  "  Man,  will  you  eat  me?" 

"  By  all  the  red  petticoats  and  check  aprons  between 
Dingle  and  Traiee,"  cried  Dick,  jumping  up  in  amazement, 
"I'd  as  soon  eat  myself,  my  jewel!  Is  it  I  eat  you,  my 
pet? — Now  'twas  some  ugly  ill-looking  thief  of  a  fish  put 
that  notion  into  your  own  pretty  head,  with  the  nice  green 
hair  down  upon  it,  that  is  so  cleanly  combed  out  this  morn- 
ing!" 

"  Man,"  said  the  Merrow,  "what  will  you  do  with  me, 
if  you  won't  eat  me?" 

Dick's  thoughts  were  running  on  a  wife:  he  saw,  at  the 
first  glimpse,  that  she  was  handsome;  but  since  she  spoke, 
and  spoke  too  like  any  real  woman,  he  was  fairly  in  love 
with  her.  'Twas  the  neat  way  she  called  him  man,  that 
settled  the  matter  entirely. 

"  Fish,"  sa3's  Dick,  trying  to  speak  to  her  after  her  own 
short  fashion;  "fish,"  says  he,  "here's  my  word,  fresh  and 
fasting,  for  you  this  blessed  morning,  that  I'll  make  you 
mistress  Fitzgerald  before  all  the  world,  and  that's  what 
I'll  do." 

"Never  say  the  word  twice,"  says  she;  "I'm  ready  and 
willing  to  be  yours,  mister  Fitzgerald;  but  stop,  if  you 
please,  'till  I  twist  up  my  hair." 

It  was  some  time  before  she  had  settled  it  entirely  to 
her  liking;  for  she  guessed,  I  suppose,  that  she  was  going 
among  strangers,  where  she  would  be  looked  at.  When 
that  was  done,  the  Merrow  put  the  comb  in  her  pocket. 


136  THE  LADY  OP  GOLLERTTS. 

and  then  bent  down  her  head  and  whispered  some  words 
to  the  water  that  was  close  to  the  foot  of  the  rock. 

Dick  saw  the  murmur  of  the  words  upon  the  top  of  the 
sea,  going  out  towards  the  wide  ocean,  just  like  a  breath  of 
wind  rippling  along,  and  says  he  in  the  greatest  wonderj 
"Is  it  speaking  you  are,  my  darling,  to  the  salt  water?" 

"It's  nothing  else,"  says  she  quite  carelessly,  "I'm  just 
sending  word  home  to  my  father,  not  to  be  waiting  break- 
fast for  me;  just  to  keep  him  from  being  uneasy  in  his 
mind." 

"And  who's  your  father,  my  duck?"  says  Dick. 

"What!"  said  the  Merrow,  "did  you  never  hear  of  my 
father?  he's  the  king  of  the  waves,  to  be  sure!" 

"And  yourself,  then,  is  a  real  king's  daughter?"  said 
Dick,  opening  his  two  eyes  to  take  a  full  and  true  survey 
of  his  wife  that  was  to  be. 

"  Oh,  I'm  nothing  else  but  a  made  man  with  you,  and  a 
king  your  father; — to  be  sure  he  has  all  the  money  that's 
down  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea!" 

"Money,"  repeated  the  Merrow,  "what's  money?" 

"'Tis  no  bad  thing  to  have  when  one  wants  it,"  replied 
Dick;  "and  may  be  now  the  fishes  have  the  understanding 
to  bring  up  whatever  you  bid  them?" 

"Oh!  yes,"  said  the  Merrow,  "they  bring  me  what  I 
want." 

"To  speak  the  truth,  then,'^  said  Dick,  "'tis  a  straw 
bed  I  have  at  home  before  you,  and  that,  I'm  thinking,  is 
no  ways  fitting  for  a  king's  daughter:  so,  if  'twould  not  be 
displeasing  to  you,  just  to  mention,  a  nice  feather-bed,  with 
a  pair  of  new  blankets — but  what  am  I  talking  about?  may 
be  you  have  not  such  things  as  beds  down  under  the  water?" 

"By  all  means,"  said  she,  "Mr.  Fitzgerald — plenty 
of  beds  at  your  service.  I've  fourteen  oyster-beds  of  my 
own,  not  to  mention  one  just  planting  for  the  rearing  of 
young  ones." 

"You  have?"  says  Dick,  scratching  his  head  and  looking 
a  little  puzzled.  "  'Tis  a  feather-bed  I  was  speaking  of — 
but  clearly,  yours  is  the  very  cut  of  a  decent  plan,  lo  have 
bed  and  supper  so  handy  to  each  other,  that  a  person  when 
they'd  have  the  one,  need  never  ask  for  the  other.  " 

However,  bed  or  no  bed,  money  or  no   money,  Dick 


THE  LADY  OF  GOLLERUS.  137 

Fitzgerald  determined  to  marry  the  Merrow,  and  the 
Merrovv  had  given  her  consent.  Away  they  went,  there- 
fore, across  the  strand,  from  Gollerus  to  Ballinrunnig, 
where  Father  Fitzgibbon  happened  to  be  that  morning. 
•  "There  are  two  words  to  this  bargain,  Dick  Fitzgerald," 
said  his  Reverence,  looking  mighty  glum.  "And  is  it  a 
fishy  woman  you'd  marry? — the  Lord  preserve  us! — Send 
the  scaly  creature  home  to  her  own  people,  that's  my  ad- 
vice to  you,  wherever  she  came  from." 

Dick  had  the  cohuleen  driuth  in  his  hand,  and  was  about 
to  give  it  back  to  the  Merrow, who  looked  covetously  at 
it,  but  he  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then,  says  he — 

"Please  your  Reverence  she's  a  king's  daughter." 

"If  she  was  the  daughter  of  fifty  kings,"  said  Father 
Fitzgibbon,  "I  tell  you,  you  can't  marry  her,  she  being  a 
fish." 

"  Please  your  Reverence,"  said  Dick  again,  in  an  under 
tone,  "she  is  as  mild  and  as  beautiful  as  the  moon." 

"  If  she  was  as  mild  and  as  beautiful  as  the  sun,  moon, 
and  stars,  all  put  together,  I  tell  you,  Dick  Fitzgerald," 
said  the  Priest  stamping  his  right  foot,  "you  can't  marry 
her,  she  being  a  fish  !" 

"But  she  has  all  the  gold  that's  down  in  the  sea  only 
for  the  asking,  and  I'm  a  made  man  if  I  marry  her;  and," 
said  Dick,  looking  up  slily,  "I  can  make  it  worth  any  one's 
while  to  do  the  job." 

"Oh!  that  alters  the  case  entirely,"  replied  the  Priest; 
"why  there's  some  reason  now  in  what  you  say:  why 
didn't  you  tell  me  this  before? — marry  her  by  all  means 
if  she  was  ten  times  a  fish.  Money,  you  know,  is  not  to 
be  refused  in  these  bad  times,  and  I  ma}''  as  well  have  the 
hansel  of  it  as  another,  that  may  be  would  not  take  half 
the  pains  in  counselling  you  as  I  have  done." 

So  Father  Fitzgibbon  married  Dick  Fitzgerald  to  the 
Merrovv,  and  like  any  loving  couple,  they  returned  to  Gol- 
lerus well  pleased  with  each  other.  Every  thing  prospered 
with  Dick — he  was  at  the  sunny  side  of  the  world;  the 
Merrow  made  the  best  of  wives,  and  they  lived  together 
in  the  greatest  contentment. 

It  was  wonderful  to  see,  considering  where  she  had  been 
brought  up,  how  she  would  busy  herself  about  the  house, 


138  THE  LADY  OF  GOLLERUS. 

and  how  well  she  nursed  the  children;  for,  at  the  end  of 
three  years,  there  were  as  many  young  Fitzgeralds — two 
boys  and  a  girl. 

In  short,  Dick  was  a  happy  man,  and  so  he  might  have 
continued  to  the  end  of  his  days,  if  he  had  only  the  sense 
to  take  proper  care  of  what  he  had  got;  many  another  man, 
however,  beside  Dick,  has  not  had  wit  enough  to  do  that. 

One  day  when  Dick  was  obliged  to  go  to  Tralee,  he  left 
his  wife,  minding  the  children  at  home  after  him,  and 
thinking  she  had  plenty  to  do  without  disturbing  his  fish- 
ing tackle. 

Dick  was  no  sooner  gone  than  Mrs.  Fitzgerald  set  about 
cleaning  up  the  house,  and  chancing  to  pull  down  a  fishing- 
net,  what  should  she  find  behind  it  in  a  hole  in  the  wall 
but  her  own  cohuleen  driutli. 

She  took  it  out  and  looked  at  it,  and  then  she  thought 
of  her  father  the  king,  and  her  mother  the  queen,  and  her 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  she  felt  a  longing  to  go  back  to 
them. 

She  sat  down  on  a  little  stool  and  thought  over  the  happy 
days  she  had  spent  under  the  sea;  then  she  looked  at  her 
children,  and  thought  on  the  love  and  affection  of  poor 
Dick,  and  how  it  would  break  his  heart  to  lose  her.  "But," 
says  she,  "he  won't  lose  me  entirely,  for  I'll  come  back  to 
him  again;  and  who  can  blame  me  for  going  to  see  my  fa- 
ther and  my  mother,  after  being  so  long  away  from  them." 
She  got  up  and  went  towards  the  door,  but  came  back 
again  to  look  once  more  at  the  child  that  was  sleeping  in 
the  cradle.  She  kissed  it  gently,  and  as  she  kissed  it,  a 
tear  trembled  for  an  instant  in  her  eye  and  then  fell  on  its 
rosy  cheek.  She  wiped  away  the  tear,  and  turning  to  the 
eldest  little  girl,  told  her  to  take  good  care  of  her  brothers, 
and  to  be  a  good  child  herself,  until  she  came  back.  The 
Merrow  then  went  down  to  the  strand. — The  sea  was  lying 
calm  and  smooth,  just  heaving  and  glittering  in  the  sun, 
and  she  thought  she  heard  a  faint  sweet  singing,  inviting 
her  to  come  down.  All  her  old  ideas  and  feelings  came 
flooding  over  her  mind,  Dick  and  her  children  were  at  the 
instant  forgotten,  and  placing  the  cohuleen  driulh  on  her 
head,  she  plunged  in. 

Dick  came  home  in  the  evening,  and  missing  his  wife, 
he  asked  Kathelin,  his  little  girl,  what  had  become  of  her 


PLORY  CANTILLON's  FUNERAL.  139 

mother,  but  she  could  not  tell  him.  He  then  inquired  of 
the  neighbours,  and  he  learned  that  she  was  seen  going 
towards  the  strand  with  a  strange  looking  thing  like  a 
cocked  hat  in  her  hand.  He  returned  to  his  cabin  to  search 
for  the  cohuleen  driuth.  It  was  gone  and  the  truth  now 
flashed  upon  him. 

Year  after  year  did  Dick  Fitzgerald  wait,  expecting  the 
return  of  his  wife,  but  he  never  saw  her  more.  Dick  never 
married  again,  always  thinking  that  the  Merrow  would 
sooner  or  later  return  to  liim,  and  nothing  could  ever  per- 
suade him  but  that  her  father  the  king  kept  iier  below  by 
main  force;  "For,"  says  Dick,  "she  surely  would  not  of 
herself  give  up  her  husband  and  her  chihiren." 

While  she  was  with  him,  she  was  so  good  a  wife  in  every 
respect,  that  to  this  day  she  is  spoken  of  in  the  tradition  of 
the  country  as  the  pattern  for  one,  under  the  name  of  the 
Lady  of  Gollerus. 


FLORY  CANTILLON'S  FUNERAL. 

XXIIl. 

The  ancient  burial-place  of  the  Cantillon  family  was  on 
an  island  in  Ballyheigh  Bay.  This  island  vvas  situated  at 
no  great  distance  from  the  shore,  and  at  a  remote  period 
was  overflowed  in  one  of  the  encroachments  which  the 
Atlantic  has  made  on  that  part  of  the  coast  of  Kerry.  The 
fishermen  declare  they  have  often  seen  the  ruined  walls  of 
an  old  chapel  beneath  them  in  the  water,  as  they  sailed 
over  the  clear  green  sea,  of  a  sunny  afternoon.*     However 

*  "  The  neighbouring  inhabitants,"  says  Dr.  Smith,  in  his  His- 
tory of  Kerry,  speaking  of  Ballyheigh,  "  show  some  rocks  visible  in 
this  bay  only  at  low  tides,  which,  they  say,  are  the  remains  of  an 
island,  that  was  formerly  the  burial-place  of  the  family  of  Cantillon, 
the  ancient  proprietors  of  Ballyheigh."  p.  210. 


140 

this  may  be,  it  is  well  known  that  the  Cantillons  were,  like 
most  other  Irish  families,  strongly  attached  to  their  ancient 
burial  place;  and  this  attachment  led  to  the  custom,  when 
any  of  the  family  died,  of  carrying  the  corpse  to  the  sea- 
side, where  the  coffin  was  left  on  the  shore  within  reach  of 
the  tide.  In  the  morning  it  had  disappeared,  being,  as  was 
traditionally  believed,  conveyed  away  by  the  ancestors  of 
the  deceased  to  their  family  tomb. 

Connor  Crowe,  a  county  Clare  man,  was  related  to  the 
Cantillons  by  marriage.  "  Connor  Mac  in  Cruagh,  of  the 
seven  quarters  of  Breintragh,''  as  he  was  commonly  called, 
and  a  proud  man  he  was  of  the  name.  Connor,  be  it 
known,  would  drink  a  quart  of  salt  water,  for  its  medicinal 
virtues,  before  breakfast;  and  for  the  same  reason,  I  sup- 
pose, double  that  quantity  of  raw  whisky  between  break- 
fast and  night,  which  last  he  did  with  as  little  inconveni- 
ence to  himself  as  any  man  in  the  barony  of  Moyferta;  and 
were  1  to  add  Clanderalaw  and  Ibrickan,  I  don't  think  I 
should  say  wrong. 

On  the  death  of  Florence  Cantillon,  Connor  Crowe  w^as 
determined  to  satisfy  himself  about  the  truth  of  this  story 
of  the  old  church  under  the  sea:  so  when  he  heard  the  news 
of  the  old  fellow's  death,  away  with  him  to  Ardfert,  where 
Flory  was  laid  out  in  high  style,  and  a  beautiful  corpse  he 
made. 

Flory  had  been  as  jolly  and  as  rollocking  a  boy  in  his 
day  as  ever  was  stretched,  and  his  wake  was  in  every  re- 
spect worthy  of  him.  There  was  all  kind  of  entertainment 
and  all  sort  of  diversion  at  it,  and  no  less  than  three  girls 
got  husbands  there — more  luck  to  them.  Every  thing 
w^as  as  it  should  be:  all  that  side  of  the  country,  from  Din- 
gle to  Tarbet,  was  at  the  funeral.  The  Keen  was  sung  long 
and  bitterly;  and,  according  to  the  family  custom,  the  coffin 
was  carried  to  Ballyheigh  strand,  where  it  was  laid  upon 
the  shore  with  a  prayer  for  the  repose  of  the  dead. 

The  mourners  departed,  one  group  after  another,  and  at 
last  Connor  Crowe  was  left  alone:  he  then  pulled  out  his 
whisky  bottle,  his  drop  of  comfort  as  he  called  it,  which 
he  required,  being  in  grief;  and  down  he  sat  upon  a  big 
stone  that  was  sheltered  by  a  projecting  rock,  and  partly 
concealed  from  view,  to  await  with  patience  the  appearance 
of  the  ghostly  undertakers. 


FLORY  CANTILLON's  FUNERAL.  141 

The  evening  came  on  mild  and  beautiful;  he  whistled  an 
old  air  which  he  had  heard  in  his  childhood,  hoping  to 
keep  idle  fears  out  of  his  head;  but  the  wild  strain  of  that 
melody  brought  a  thousand  recollections  with  it,  which 
only  made  the  twilight  appear  more  pensive. 

"If 'twas  near  the  gloomy  tower  of  Dunmore,  in  my  own 
sweet  county,  I  was,"  said  Connor  Crowe,  with  a  sigh, 
"one  might  well  believe  that  the  prisoners,  who  were  mur- 
dered long  ago,  there  in  the  vaults  under  the  castle,  would 
be  the  hands  to  carry  off  the  coffin  out  of  envy,  for  never 
a  one  of  them  was  buried  decently,  nor  had  as  much  as  a 
coffin  amongst  them  all.  '^'is  often,  sure  enough,  I  have 
heard  lamentations  and  great  mourning  coming  from  the 
vaults  of  Dunmore  Castle;  but/'  continued  he,  after  fond- 
ly pressing  his  lips  to  the  mouth  of  his  companion  and 
silent  comforter,  the  whisky  bottle,  "didn't  I  know  all 
the  lime  well  enough,  'twas  the  dismal  sounding  waves 
working  through  the  cliffs  and  hollows  of  the  rocks,  and 
fretting  themselves  to  foam.  Oh  then,  Dunmore  Castle,  it 
is  you  that  are  the  gloomy-looking  tower  on  a  gloomy  day, 
with  the  gloomy  hills  behind  you;  when  one  has  gloomy 
thoughts  on  their  heart,  and  sees  you  like  a  ghost  rising 
out  of  the  smoke  made  by  the  kelp-burners  on  the  strand, 
there  is,  the  Lord  save  us!  as  fearful  a  look  about  you  as 
about  the  Blue  Man's  Lake  at  midnight.  Well  then,  any 
how,"  said  Connor,  after  a  pause,  "is  it  not  a  blessed  night, 
though  surely  the  moon  looks  mighty  pale  in  the  face?  St. 
Senan  himself  between  us  and  all  kinds  of  harm!" 

It  was,  in  truth  a  lovely  moonlight  night;  nothing  was 
to  be  seen  around  but  the  dark  rocks,  and  the  white  pebbly 
beach,  upon  which  the  sea  broke  with  a  hoarse  and  me- 
lancholy murmur.  Connor,  notwithstanding  his  frequent 
draughts,  felt  rather  queerish,  and  almost  began  to  repent 
his  curiosity.  It  was  certainly  a  solemn  sight  to  behold 
the  black  coffin  resting  upon  the  white  strand.  His  ima- 
gination gradually  converted  the  deep  moaning  of  old  ocean 
into  a  mournful  wail  for  the  dead,  and  from  the  shadowy 
recesses  of  the  rocks  he  imaged  forth  strange  and  visionary 
forms. 

As  the  night  advanced,  Connor  became  weary  of  watch- 
ing; he  caught  himself  more  than  once  in  the  fact  of  nod- 


142  FLORY  CANTILLON's  FUNERAL. 

ding,  when  suddenly  giving  his  head  a  shake,  he  would 
look  towards  the  black  coffin.  But  the  narrow  house  of 
death  remained  unmoved  before  him. 

It  was  long  past  midnight,  and  the  moon  was  sinking 
into  the  sea,  when  he  heard  the  sound  of  many  voices, 
which  gradually  became  stronger,  above  the  heavy  and 
monotonous  roll  of  the  sea:  he  listened,  and  presently  could 
distinguish  a  Keen,  of  exquisite  sweetness,  the  notes  of 
which  rose  and  fell  with  the  heaving  of  the  waves,  whose 
deep  murmur  mingled  with  and  supported  the  strain! 

The  Keen  grew  louder  and  louder,  and  seemed  to  ap- 
proach the  beach,  and  then  fell  into  a  low  plaintive  wail. 
As  it  ended,  Connor  beheld  a  number  of  strange,  and  in 
the  dim  light,  mysterious-looking  figures,  emerge  from  the 
sea,  and  surround  the  coffin,  which  they  prepared  to  launch 
into  the  water. 

"This  comes  of  marrying  with  the  creatures  of  earth," 
said  one  of  the  figures,  in  a  clear,  yet  hollow  tone. 

"True,"  replied  another,  with  a  voice  still  more  fearful, 
"our  king  would  never  have  commanded  his  gnawing 
white-toothed  waves  to  devour  the  rocky  roots  of  the 
island  cemetery,  had  not  his  daughter,  Durfulla,  been  bu- 
ried there  by  her  mortal  husband!" 

"But  the  time  will  come,"  said  a  third,  bending  over 
the  coffin, 

"  When  mortal  eye — our  work  shall  spy, 
And  mortal  ear — our  dirge  shall  hear." 

"Then,"  said  a  fourth,  "our  burial  of  the  Cantillons  is 
at  an  end  for  ever!" 

As  this  was  spoken  the  coffin  was  borne  from  the  beach 
by  a  retiring  wave,  and  the  company  of  sea  people  prepared 
to  follow  it;  but  at  the  moment  one  chanced  to  discover 
Connor  Crowe,  as  fixed  with  wonder  and  as  motionless 
with  fear  as  the  stone  on  which  he  sat. 

"The  time  is  come,"  cried  the  unearthly  being,  "the 
time  is  come:  a  human  eye  looks  on  the  forms  of  ocean,  a 
human  ear  has  heard  their  voices;  farewell  to  the  Cantil- 
lons; the  sons  of  the  sea  are  no  longer  doomed  to  bury  the 
dust  of  the  earth!" 

One  after  the  other  turned  slowly  round,  and  regarded 


THE  LORD  OF  DUNKERRON.  143 

Connor  Crowe,  who  still  remained  as  if  bound  by  a  spell. 
Again  arose  their  funeral  song;  and  on  the  next  wave  they 
followed  the  coffin.  The  sound  of  the  lamentation  died 
away,  and  at  length  nothing  was  heard  but  the  rush  of 
waters.  The  coffin  and  the  train  of  sea  people  sank  over 
the  old  church-yard,  and  never,  since  the  funeral  of  old 
Flory  Cantillon,  have  any  of  the  family  been  carried  to  the 
strand  of  Ballyheigh,  for  conveyance  to  their  rightful  bu- 
rial-place, beneath  the  waves  of  the  Atlantic. 


THE  LORD  OF  DUNKERRON. 


XXIV. 

The  lord  of  Dunkerron* — O'Sullivan  More, 
Why  seeks  he  at  midnight  the  sea-beaten  shore? 
His  bark  lies  in  haven  his  hounds  are  asleep; 
No  foes  are  abroad  on  the  land  or  the  deep. 

Yet  nightly  the  lord  of  Dunkerron  is  known 
On  the  wild  shore  to  watch  and  to  wander  alone; 
For  a  beautiful  spirit  of  ocean,  'tis  said. 
The  lord  of  Dunkerron  would  win  to  his  bed. 

*  The  remains  of  Dunkerron  Caslle  are  distant  about  a  mile  from 
the  village  of  Kenmare,  in  the  county  of  Kerry.  It  is  recorded  to 
have  been  built  in  1596,  by  Owen  O'Sullivan  More. — [More,  is 
merely  an  epithet  signifying  the  Great.} 


I 


144  THE  LORD  OP  DUNKERRON. 

When,  by  moonlight,  the  waters  were  hush'd  to  repose, 

That  beautiful  spirit  of  ocean  arose; 

Her  hair,  full  of  lustre,  just  floated  and  fell 

O'er  her  bosom,  that  heaved  with  a  billowy  swell. 

Long,  long  had  he  loved  her — long  vainly  essay'd 
To  lure  from  her  dwelling  the  coy  ocean  maid; 
And  long  had  he  wander'd  and  watch'd  by  the  tide, 
To  claim  the  fair  spirit  O'Sulli van's  bride! 

The  maiden  she  gazed  on  the  creature  of  earth, 
Whose  voice  in  her  breast  to  a  feeling  gave  birth; 
Then  smiled;  and,  abashed  as  a  maiden  might  be. 
Looking  down,  gently  sank  to  her  home  in  the  sea. 

Though  gentle  that  smile,  as  the  moonlight  above, 
O'Sullivan  felt  'twas  the  dawning  of  love, 
And  hope  came  on  hope,  spreading  over  his  mind, 
Like  the  eddy  of  circles  her  wake  left  behind. 

The  lord  of  Dunkerron  he  plunged  in  the  waves. 
And  sought  through  the  fierce  rush  of  waters,  their  caves 5 
The  gloom  of  whose  depth  studded  over  with  spars. 
Had  the  glitter  of  midnight  when  lit  up  by  stars. 

Who  can  tell  or  can  fancy  the  treasures  that  sleep. 
Entombed  in  the  wonderful  womb  of  the  deep? 
The  pearls  and  the  gems,  as  if  valueless,  thrown 
To  lie  'mid  the  sea-wrack  concealed  and  unknown. 

Down,  down  went  the  maid, — still  the  chieftain  pursued; 
Who  flies  must  be  followed  ere  she  can  be  v^'ooed. 
Untempted  by  treasures,  unawed  by  alarms, 
The  maiden  at  length  he  has  clasped  in  his  armsl 

They  rose  from  the  deep  by  a  smooth-spreading  strand. 
Whence  beauty  and  verdure  stretch'd  over  the  land. 
'Twas  an  isle  of  enchantment!  and  lightly  the  breeze, 
With  a  musical  murmur,  just  crept  through  the  trees. 


THE  LORD  OF  DUNKERRON.  145 

The  haze-woven  shroud  of  that  newly  born  isle, 
Softly  faded  away,  from  a  magical  pile, 
A  p^dace  of  crystal,  whose  bright-beaming  sheen 
Had  the  tints  of  the  rainbow — red,  yellow,  and  green. 

And  grottoes,  fantastic  in  hue  and  in  form. 

Were  there,  as  flung  up — the  wild  sport  of  the  storm; 

Yet  all  was  so  cloudless,  so  lovely,  and  calm. 

It  seemed  but  a  region  of  sunshine  and  balm. 

"  Here,  here  shall  we  dwell  in  a  dream  of  delight, 
Where  the  glories  of  earth  and  of  ocean  unite! 
Yet,  loved  son  of  earth!   I  must  from  thee  away; 
There  are  laws  which  e'en  spirits  are  bound  to  obey! 

"Once  more  must  I  visit  the  chief  of  my  race. 
His  sanction  to  gain  ere  I  meet  thy  embrace. 
In  a  moment  I  dive  to  the  chambers  beneath: 
One  cause  can  detain  me — one  only — 'tis  death!'' 

They  parted  in  sorrow,  with  vows  true  and  fondj 
The  language  of  promise  had  nothing  beyond. 
His  soul  all  on  fire,  with  anxiety  burns: 
The  moment  is  gone — but  no  maiden  returns. 

What  sounds  from  the  deep  meet  his  terrified  ear — 
What  accents  of  rage  and  of  grief  does  he  hear? 
What  sees  he?   what  change  has  come  over  the  flood— 
What  tinges  its  green  with  a  jetty  of  blood? 

Can  he  doubt  what  the  gush  of  warm  blood  would  explain? 
That  she  sought  the  consent  of  her  monarch  in  vain! 
For  see  all  around  him,  in  white  foam  and  froth, 
The  waves  of  the  ocean  boil  up  in  their  wroth! 

The  palace  of  crystal  has  melted  in  air, 
And  the  dyes  of  the  rainbow  no  longer  are  there; 
The  grottoes  with  vapour  and  clouds  are  o'ercast, 
The  sunshine  is  darkness — the  vision  has  past! 
13 


146  THE  WONDERFUL  TUNE. 

Loud,  loud  was  the  call  of  his  serfs  for  their  chief; 
They  sought  him  with  accents  of  wailing  and  grief: 
He  heard,  and  he  struggled — a  wave  to  the  shore, 
Exhausted  and  faint,  bears  O'Sullivan  More! 


THE  WONDERFUL   TUNE. 

XXV. 

Maurice  Connor  was  the  king,  and  that's  no  small 
word,  of  all  the  pipers  in  Munster.  He  could  play  jig  and 
planxty  without  end,  and  OUistrum's  March,  and  the  Ea- 
gle's Whistle,  and  the  Hen's  Concert,  and  odd  tunes  of 
every  sort  and  kind.  But  he  knew  one,  far  more  sur- 
prising than  the  rest,  which  had  in  it  the  power  to  set 
every  thing  dead  or  alive  dancing. 

In  what  way  he  learned  it  is  beyond  my  knowledge,  for 
he  was  mighty  cautious  about  telling  how  he  came  by  so 
wonderful  a  tune.  At  the  very  first  note  of  that  tune,  the 
brogues  began  shaking  upon  the  feet  of  all  who  heard  it — 
old  or  young  it  mattered  not — just  as  if  their  brogues  had 
the  ague;  then  the  feet  began  going — going — going  from 
under  them,  and  at  last  up  and  away  with  them,  dancing 
like  mad! — whisking  here,  there,  and  every  where,  like  a 
straw^  in  a  storm — there  was  no  halting  while  the  music 
lasted! 

Not  a  fair,  nor  a  wedding,  nor  a  patron  in  the  seven 
parishes  round,  w^as  counted  worth  the  speaking  of  without 
"blind  Maurice  and  his  pipes."  His  mother,  poor  woman, 
used  to  lead  him  about  from  one  place  to  another,  just  like 
a  dog. 

Down  through  Iveragh — a  place  that  ought  to  be  proud 


THE  WONDERFUL  TUNE.  147 

of  itself,  for  'tis  Daniel  O'Connell's  country — Maurice 
Connor  and  his  mother  were  taking  their  rounds.  Beyond 
all  other  places  Iveragh  is  the  place  for  stormy  coast  and 
steep  mountains:  as  proper  a  spot  it  is  as  any  in  Ireland  to 
get  yourself  drowned,  or  your  neck  broken  on  the  land, 
should  you  prefer  that.  But,  notwithstanding,  in  Ballins- 
kellig  bay  there  is  a  neat  bit  of  ground,  well  fitted  for  di- 
version, and  down  from  it  towards  the  water,  is  a  clean 
smooth  piece  of  strand — the  dead  image  of  a  calm  summer's 
sea  on  a  moonlight  night,  with  just  the  curl  of  the  small 
waves  upon  it. 

Here  it  was  that  Maurice's  music  had  brought  from  all 
parts  a  great  gathering  of  the  young  men  and  the  young 
women — O  the  darlints! — for  'twas  not  every  day  the 
strand  of  Trafraska  was  stirred  up  by  the  voice  of  a  bag- 
pipe. The  dance  began;  and  as  pretty  a  rinkafadda  it  was 
as  ever  was  danced.  "Brave  music,"  said  every  body, 
"and  well  done,"  when  Maurice  stopped. 

"  More  power  to  your  elbow,  Maurice,  and  a  fair  wind 
in  the  bellows,"  cried  Paddy  Dorman,  a  hump-backed 
dancing-master,  who  was  there  to  keep  order.  "'Tis  a 
pity,"  said  he,  "if  we'd  let  the  piper  run  dry  after  such 
music;  'twould  be  a  disgrace  to  Iveragh,  that  didn't  come 
on  it  since  the  week  of  the  three  Sundays."  So,  as  well 
became  him,  for  he  was  always  a  decent  man,  says  he: 
"Did  you  drink,  piper?" 

"  I  will,  sir,"  says  Maurice,  answering  the  question  on 
the  safe  side,  for  you  never  yet  knew  piper  or  schoolmaster 
who  refused  his  drink. 

"What  will  you  drink,  Maurice?"  says  Paddy. 

"I'm  no  ways  particular,"  says  Maurice;  "I  drink  any 
thing,  and  give  God  thanks,  barring  raw  water;  but  if  'tis 
all  the  same  to  you,  mister  Dorman,  may  be  you  wouldn't 
lend  me  the  loan  of  a  glass  of  whiskey." 

"  I've  no  glass,  Maurice,"  said  Paddy;  "  I've  only  the 
bottle." 

"Let  that  be  no  hindrance,"  answered  Maurice;  "my 
mouth  just  holds  a  glass  to  the  drop;  often  I've  tried  it, 
sure." 

So  Paddy  Dorman  trusted  him  with  the  bottle — more 
fool  was  he;  and,  to  his  cost,  he  found  that  though  Mau- 


148  THE  WONDERFUL  TUNE. 

rice's  mouth  might  not  hold  more  than  the  glass  at  one 
time,  yet,  owing  to  the  hole  in  his  throat,  it  took  many  a 
filling. 

"  That  was  no  bad  whisky  neither,''  says  Maurice,  hand- 
ing back  the  empty  bottle. 

"By  the  holy  frost,  then!"  says  Paddy,  "  'tis  but  cowld 
comfort  there's  in  that  bottle  now;  and  'tis  your  word  we 
must  take  for  the  strength  of  the  whisky,  for  you've  left 
us  no  sample  to  judge  by:"  and  to  be  sure  Maurice  had 
not. 

Now  I  need  not  tell  any  gentleman  or  lady  with  com- 
mon understanding,  that  if  he  or  she  was  to  drink  an  ho- 
nest bottle  of  whiskey  at  one  pull,  it  is  not  at  all  the  same 
thing  as  drinking  a  bottle  of  water;  and  in  the  whole  course 
of  my  life,  I  never  knew  more  than  five  men  who  could 
do  so  without  being  overtaken  by  the  liquor.  Of  these 
Maurice  Connor  was  not  one,  though  he  had  a  stiff  head 
enough  of  his  own — he  was  fairly  tipsy.  Don't  think  1 
blame  him  for  it;  'tis  often  a  good  man's  case;  but  true  is 
the  word  that  says,  "when  liquor's  in,  sense  is  out;"  and 
puff,  at  a  breath,  before  you  could  say  "  Lord  save  us!" 
out  he  blasted  his  wonderful  tune. 

'Twas  really  then  beyond  all  belief  or  telling  the  dancing 
Maurice  himself  could  not  keep  quiet;  staggering  now  on 
one  leg,  now  on  the  other,  and  rolling  about  like  a  ship  in 
a  cross  sea,  trying  to  humour  the  tune.  There  was  his 
mother  too,  moving  her  old  bones  as  light  as  the  youngest 
girl  of  them  all;  but  her  dancing,  no,  nor  the  dancing  of  all 
the  rest,  is  not  worthy  the  speaking  about  to  the  work  that 
was  going  on  down  on  the  strand.  Every  inch  of  it  co- 
vered with  all  manner  of  fish  jumping  and  plunging  about 
to  the  music,  and  every  moment  more  and  more  would 
tumble  in  out  of  the  water,  charmed  by  the  wonderful 
tune.  Crabs  of  monstrous  size  spun  round  and  round  on 
one  claw  with  the  nimbleness  of  a  dancing-master,  and 
twirled  and  tossed  their  other  claws  about  like  limbs  that 
did  not  belong  to  them.  It  was  a  sight  surprising  to  be- 
hold. But  perhaps  you  may  have  heard  of  father  Florence 
Conry,  a  Franciscan  Friar,  and  a  great  Irish  poet;  bolg  an 
dUnttf  as  they  used  to  call  him — a  wallet  of  poems.  If  you 
have  not  he  was  as  pleasant  a  man  as  one  would  wish  to 


THE  WONDERFUL  TUNE.  149 

drink  with  of  a  hot  summer's  day;  and  he  has  rhymed  out 
all  about  the  dancing  fishes  so  neatly,  that  it  would  be  a 
thousand  pities  not  to  give  you  his  verses;  so  here's  my 
hand  at  an  upset  of  them  into  English: 

The  big-  seals  in  motion, 
Like  waves  of  the  ocean, 

Or  gouty  feet  prancing, 
Came  heading  the  gay  fish, 
Crabs,  lobsters,  and  cray  fish, 

Determined  on  dancing. 

The  sweet  sounds  they  follow'd, 
The  gasping  cod  swallow'd; 

"Twas  wonderful,  really! 
And  turbot  and  flounder, 
'Mid  fish  that  were  rounder, 

Just  caper'd  as  gaily. 

John-dories  cam.e  tripping; 
Dull  hake,  by  their  skipping 

To  frisk  it  seem'd  given; 
Bright  mackerel  went  springino-, 
Like  small  rainbows  winging 

Their  flight  up  to  heaven.° 

The  whiting  and  haddock 
Left  salt-water  paddock. 

This  dance  to  be  put  in: 
Where  skate  with  flat  faces 
Edged  out  some  odd  plaices; 

But  soles  kept  their  footing. 

Sprats  and  herrings  in  powers 
Of  silvery  showers 

All  number  out-number'd; 
And  great  ling  so  lengthy 
Were  there  in  such  plenty, 

The  shore  was  encumb'er'd. 

The  scollop  and  oyster 
Their  two  shells  did  roister, 

Like  castanets  fitting; 
While  limpets  moved  clearly, 
And  rocks  very  nearly 

With  laughter  were  splitting. 

13* 


150  THE  WONDERFUL  TUNE. 

Never  was  such  an  ullabuUoo  in  this  world,  before  or 
since;  'twas  as  if  heaven  and  earth  were  coming  together; 
and  all  out  of  Maurice  Connor's  wonderful  tune! 

In  the  height  of  all  these  doings,  what  should  there  be 
dancing  among  the  outlandish  set  of  fishes  but  a  beautiful 
young  woman — as  beautiful  as  the  dawn  of  day!  She  had 
a  cocked  hat  upon  her  head;  from  under  it  her  long  green 
hair — just  the  colour  of  the  sea — fell  down  behind,  without 
hinderance  to  her  dancing;.  Her  teeth  were  like  rows  of 
pearl;  her  lips  for  all  the  world  looked  like  red  coral;  and 
she  had  an  elegant  gown,  as  white  as  the  foam  of  the  wave, 
with  little  rows  of  purple  and  red  sea-weeds  settled  out 
upon  it;  for  you  never  yet  saw  a  lady,  under  the  water  or 
over  the  water,  who  had  not  a  good  notion  of  dressing  her- 
self out. 

Up  she  danced  at  last  to  Maurice,  who  was  flinging  his 
feet  from  under  him  as  fast  as  hops — for  nothing  in  this 
world  could  keep  still  while  that  tune  of  his  was  going  on 
— and  says  she  to  him,  chaunting  it  out  with  a  voice  as 
sweet  as  honey — 

*'  Vm  a  lady  of  honour 

Who  live  in  the  sea  ; 
Come  down,  Maurice  Connor, 

And  be  naarried  to  me. 

"  Silver  plates  and  gold  dishes 

You  shall  have,  and  shall  be 
The  king  of  the  fishes, 

When  you're  married  to  me." 

Drink  was  strong  in  Maurice's  head,  and  out  he  chaunted 
in  return  for  her  great  civility.  It  is  not  every  lady,  may 
be,  that  would  be  after  making  such  an  offer  to  a  blind 
piper;  therefore  'twas  only  right  in  him  to  give  her  as  good 
as  she  gave  herself — so  says  Maurice, 

"I'm  obliged  to  you,  madam: 

Off  a  gold  dish  or  plate, 
If  a  king,  and  I  had  'em, 

I  could  dine  in  great  state. 


THE  WONDERFUL  TUNE.  151 

«'  With  your  own  father's  daughter 

I'd  he  sure  to  agree; 
But  to  drink  the  salt  water 

Wouldn't  do  so  with  me!" 

The  lady  looked  at  him  quite  amazed,  and  swinging  her 
head  from  side  to  side  like  a  great  scholar,  "Well,"  saj'S 
she,  "  Maurice,  if  you're  not  a  poet,  where  is  poetry  to  be 
found?" 

In  this  way  they  kept  on  at  it,  framing  high  compli- 
ments; one  answering  the  other,  and  their  feet  going  with 
the  music  as  fast  as  their  tongues.  All  the  fish  kept  dancing 
too:  Maurice  heard  the  clatter,  and  was  afraid  to  stop  play- 
ing lest  it  might  be  displeasing  to  the  fish,  and  not  knowing 
what  so  many  of  them  may  lake  it  into  their  heads  to  do 
to  him  if  they  got  vexed. 

Well,  the  lady  with  the  green  hair  kept  on  coaxing  ot 
Maurice  with  soft  speeches,  till  at  last  she  overpersuaded 
him  to  promise  to  marry  her,  and  be  king  over  the  fishes> 
great  and  small.  Maurice  was  well  fitted  to  be  their  king, 
if  they  wanted  one  that  could  make  them  dance;  and  he 
surely  would  drink,  barring  the  salt  water,  with  any  fish 
of  them  all. 

When  Maurice's  mother  saw  him,  with  that  unnatural 
thing  in  the  form  of  a  green-haired  lady  as  his  guide,  and 
he  and  she  dancing  down  together  so  lovingly  to  the  water's 
edge  through  the  thick  of  the  fishes,  she  called  out  after  him 
to  stop  and  come  back.  "Oh  then,"  says  she, "  as  if  I  was 
not  widow  enough  before,  there  he  is  going  away  from  me 
to  be  married  to  that  scaly  woman.  And  who  knows  but 
'tis  grandmother  I  may  be  to  a  hake  or  a  cod — Lord  help 
and  pity  me,  but  'tis  a  mighty  unnatural  thing! — and  may 
be  'tis  iDoiling  and  eating  my  own  grandchild  I'll  be,  with 
a  bit  of  salt  butter,  and  I  not  knowing  it! — Oh  Maurice, 
Maurice,  if  there's  any  love  or  nature  left  in  you,  come 
back  to  your  own  ould  mother,  who  reared  you  like  a  de- 
cent Christian!" 

Then  the  poor  woman  began  to  cry  and  ullagoane  so 
finely  that  it  would  do  any  one  good  to  hear  her. 

Maurice  was  not  long  getting  to  the  rim  of  the  water; 
there  he  kept  playing  and  dancing  on  as  if  nothing  was  the 
matter,  and  a  great  thundering  wave  coming  in  towards  hiia 


153  THE  WONDERFUL  TUNE. 

ready  to  swallow  him  up  alive;  but  as  he  could  not  see  it, 
he  did  not  fear  it.  His  mother  it  was  who  saw  it  plainly- 
through  the  big  tears  that  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks; 
and  though  she  saw  it,  and  her  heart  was  aching  as  much 
as  ever  mother's  heart  ached  for  a  son,  she  kept  dancing, 
dancing,  all  the  time  for  the  bare  life  of  her.  Certain  it 
was  she  could  not  help  it,  for  Maurice  never  stopped  play- 
ing that  wonderful  tune  of  his. 

He  only  turned  the  bothered  ear  to  the  sound  of  his 
mother's  voice,  fearing  it  might  put  him  out  in  his  steps, 
and  "all  the  answer  he  made  back  was — 

"Whisht  with  you,  mother — sure  I'm  going  to  be  king 
over  the  fishes  down  in  the  sea,  and  for  a  tolien  of  luck, 
and  a  sign  that  I  am  alive  and  well,  I'll  send  you  in,  every 
twelvemonth  on  this  day,  a  piece  of  burned  wood  to  Tra- 
fraska."  Maurice  had  not  the  povver  to  say  a  word  more, 
for  the  strange  lady  with  the  green  hair,  seeing  the  wave 
just  upon  them,  covered  him  up  with  herself  in  a  thing 
like  a  cloak  with  a  big  hood  to  it,  and  the  wave  curling 
over  twice  as  high  as  their  heads,  burst  upon  the  strand, 
with  a  rush  and  a  roar  that  might  be  heard  as  far  as  Cape 
Clear. 

That  day  twelvemonth  the  piece  of  burned  wood  came 
ashore  in  Trafraska.  It  was  a  queer  thing  for  Maurice  to 
think  of  sending  all  the  way  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 
A  gown  or  a  pair  of  shoes  would  have  been  something  like 
a  present  for  his  poor  mother;  but  he  had  said  it,  and  he 
kept  his  word.  The  bit  of  burned  wood  regularly  came 
ashore  on  the  appointed  day  for  as  good,  ay,  and  better 
than  a  hundred  years.  The  day  is  now  forgotten,  and  may 
be  that  is  the  reason  why  people  say  how  Maurice  Connor 
has  stopped  sending  the  luck-token  to  his  mother.  Poor 
woman,  she  did  not  live  to  get  as  much  as  one  of  them; 
for  what  through  the  loss  of  Maurice,  and  the  fear  of  eat- 
ing her  own  grandchildren,  she  died  in  three  weeks  after 
the  dance — some  say  it  was  the  fatigue  that  killed  her,  but 
whichever  it  was,  Mrs.  Connor  was  decently  buried  with 
her  own  people. 

Seafaring  men  have  often  heard  off  the  coast  of  Kerry, 
on  a  still  night,  the  sound  of  music  coming  up  from  the 
water;  and  some,  who  have  had  good  ears,  could  plainly 


THE  WONDERFUL  TUNE.  153 

distinguish  Maurice  Connor's  voice  singing  these  words  to 
his  pipes: — 

Beautiful  shore,  with  thy  spreading  strand, 
Thy  crystal  water,  and  diamond  sand; 
Never  would  I  have  parted  from  thee 
But  for  the  sake  of  my  fair  ladie.* 

*  This  is  almost  a  literal  translation  of  a  Rann  in  the  well-known 
song  of  Deardra. 


The  Irish  Merrow  answers  exactly  to  the  English  Mermaid.  It 
is  also  used  to  express  a  sea-monster,  like  the  Armorick  and  Cornish 
Morhuch,  to  which  it  evidently  bears  analogy. 

The  romantic  historians  of  Ireland  describe  the  Suire  as  playing 
round  the  ships  of  the  Milesians  when  on  their  passage  to  that 
Island. 


THE    DULLABAN 


*'  Then  wonder  not  at  headless  folk. 
Since  every  day  you  greet  'em; 
Nor  treat  old  stories  as  a  joke, 

Wiien  fools  you  daily  meet  'em." — The  Legendary. 

•  Says  the  friar,  'tis  strange  headless  horses  should  trot." 

Old  Song. 


THE   GOOD  WOMAN. 

XXVI. 

In  a  pleasant  and  not  unpicturesque  valley  of  the  White 
Knight's  country,  at  the  foot  of  the  Galtee  mountains,  lived 
Larry  Dodd  and  his  wife  Nancy.  They  rented  a  cabin 
and  a  few  acres  of  land,  which  they  cultivated  with  great 
care,  and  its  crops  rewarded  their  industry.  They  were 
independent  and  respected  by  their  neighbours;  they  loved 
each  other  in  a  marriageable  sort  of  way,  and  few  couples 
had  altogether  more  the  appearance  of  comfort  about  them, 

Larry  was  a  hard  working,  and,  occasionally,  a  hard 


156  THE  GOOD  WOMAN. 

drinking,  Dutch-built,  little  man,  with  a  fiddle  head  and  a 
round  stern;  a  steady-ij;oing  straight-forward  fellow,  barring 
when  he  carried  too  much  whisky,  which,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, might  occasionally  prevent  his  walking  the  chalked 
line  with  perfect  philomathical  accuracy.  He  had  a  moist, 
ruddy  countenance,  rather  inclined  to  an  expression  of 
gravity,  and  particularly  so  in  the  morning;  but,  taken  all 
together  he  was  generally  looked  upon  as  a  marvellously 
proper  person,  notwithstanding  he  had,  every  day  in  the 
year,  a  sort  of  unholy  dew  upon  his  face,  even  in  the  cold- 
est weather,  which  gave  rise  to  a  supposition  (amongst  cen- 
sorious persons,  of  course,)  that  Larry  was  apt  to  indulge 
in  strong  and  frequent  potations.  However,  all  men  of 
talents  have  their  faults,— indeed,  who  is  without  them? — 
and  as  Larry,  setting  aside  his  domestic  virtues  and  skill 
in  farming,  was  decidedly  the  most  distinguished  breaker 
of  horses  for  forty  miles  round,  he  must  be  in  some  degree 
excused,  considering  the  inducements  of  «Mhe  stirrup  cup," 
and  the  fox-hunting  society  in  which  he  mixed,  if  he  had 
also  been  the  greatest  drunkard  in  the  county:  but,  in  truth, 
this  was  not  the  case. 

Larry  was  a  man  of  mixed  habits,  as  well  in  his  mode  of 
life  and  his  drink,  as  in  his  costume.  His  dress  accorded 
well  with  his  character — a  sort  of  half-and-half  between 
farmer  and  horse-jockey.  He  wore  a  blue  coat  of  coarse 
cloth,  with  short  skirts,  and  a  sland-up  collar;  his  w^aistcoat 
was  red,  and  his  lower  habiliments  were  made  of  leather, 
which  in  course  of  time  had  shrunk  so  much,  that  they 
fitted  like  a  second  skin;  and  long  use  had  absorbed  their 
moiSture  to  such  a  degree,  that  they  made  a  strange  sort 
of  crackling  noise  as  he  walked  along.  A  hat  covered  with 
oilskin;  a  cutting-whip,  all  worn  and  jagged  at  the  end;  a 
pair  of  second-hand,  or,  to  speak  more  correctl)?-,  second- 
footed,  greasy  top  boots,  that  seemed  never  to  have  imbibed 
a  refreshing  draught  of  Warren's  blacking  of  matchless 
lustre! — and  one  spur  without  a  rowel,  completed  the 
every-day  dress  of  Larry  Dodd. 

Thus  equipped  was  Larry  returning  from  Cashel,  mount- 
ed on  a  rough-coated  and  wall-eyed  nag,  though,  notwith- 
standing these  and  a  few  other  trifling  blemishes,  a  well- 
built  animal;  having  just  purchased  the  said  nag,  with  a 


THE  GOOD  WOMAN.  157 

fancy  that  he  could  make  his  own  money  again  of  his  bar- 
gain, and,  may  be,  turn  an  odd  penny  more  by  it  at  the 
ensuing  Kildorrery  fair.  Well  pleased  with  himself,  he 
trotted  fair  and  easy  along  the  road  in  the  delicious  and 
lingering  twilight  of  a  lovely  June  evening,  thinking  of 
nothing  at  all,  only  whistling,  and  wondering  would  horses 
always  be  so  low.  "If  they  go  at  this  rate,"  said  he  to 
himself,  "for  half  nothing,  and  that  paid  in  butter  buyer's 
notes,  who  would  be  the  fool  to  walk?'^  This  very  thought, 
indeed,  was  passing  in  his  mind,  when  his  attention  was 
roused  by  a  woman  pacing  quickly  by  the  side  of  his 
horse  and  hurrying  on  as  if  endeavouring  to  reach  her 
destination  before  the  night  closed  in.  Her  figure,  con- 
sidering the  long  strides  she  took,  appeared  to  be  under 
the  common  size — rather  of  the  dumpy  order;  but  farther, 
as  to  whether  the  damsel  was  young  or  old,  fair  or  brown, 
pretty  or  ugly,  Larry  could  form  no  precise  notion,  from 
her  wearing  a  large  cloak  (the  usual  garb  of  the  female 
Irish  peasant,)  the  hood  of  which  was  turned  up,  and  com- 
pletely concealed  every  feature. 

Enveloped  in  this  mass  of  dark  and  concealing  drapery, 
the  strange  woman,  without  much  exertion,  contrived  to 
keep  up  with  Larry  Dodd's  steed  for  some  time^  when  his 
master  very  civilly  offered  her  a  lift  behind  him,  as  far  as 
he  was  going  her  way.  "Civility  begets  civility,"  they 
say;  however  he  received  no  answer;  and  thinking  that 
the  lady's  silence  proceeded  only  from  bashfulness,  like  a 
man  of  true  gallantry,  not  a  word  more  said  Larry  until 
he  pulled  up  by  the  side  of  a  gap,  and  then  says  he,  ".Ma 
colleen  beg,^  just  jump  up  behind  me,  without  a  word  more, 
though  never  a  one  have  you  spoke,  and  I'll  take  you  safe 
and  sound  through  the  lonesome  bit  of  road  that  is  before 
us." 

She  jumped  at  the  offer,  sure  enough,  and  up  with  her 
on  the  back  of  the  horse  as  light  as  a  feather.  In  an  in- 
stant there  she  was  seated  up  behind  Larry,  with  her  hand 
and  arm  buckled  round  his  waist  holding  on. 

"I  hope  you're  comfortable  there,  my  dear,"  said  Larry, 
in  his  own  good-humoured  way;  but  there  was  no  answerj 

*  My  little  girl. 
14 


158  THE  GOOD  WOMAN. 

and  on  they  went — trot,  trot,  trot — along  the  road;  and 
all  was  so  still  and  so  quiet,  that  you  might  have  heard  the 
sound  of  the  hoofs  on  the  limestone  a  mile  off;  for  that 
matter  there  was  nothing  else  to  hear  except  the  moaning 
of  a  distant  stream,  that  kept  up  a  continued  cronane,"^  like 
a  nurse  hushoing.  Larry,  who  had  a  keen  ear,  did  not, 
however,  require  so  profound  a  silence  to  detect  the  click 
of  one  of  the  shoes.  *'  'Tis  only  loose  the  shoe  is,"  said 
he  to  his  companion,  as  they  were  just  entering  on  the 
lonesome  bit  of  road  of  which  he  had  before  spoken. 
Some  old  trees,  with  huge  trunks,  all  covered,  and  irregular 
branches  festooned  with  ivy,  grew  over  a  dark  pool  of 
water,  which  had  been  formed  as  a  drinking-place  for  cat- 
tle; and  in  the  distance  was  seen  the  majestic  head  of 
Gaultee-more.  Here  the  horse,  as  if  in  grateful  recog- 
nition, made  a  dead  halt;  and  Larry,  not  knowing  what 
vicious  tricks  his  new  purchase  might  have,  and  unwilling 
that  through  any  odd  chance  the  young  woman  should  get 
spilt  in  the  water,  dismounted,  thinking  to  lead  the  horse 
quietly  by  the  pool. 

"By  the  piper's  luck,  that  always  found  what  he  want- 
ed," said  Larry,  recollecting  himself,  "I've  a  nail  in  my 
pocket:  'tis  not  the  first  time  I've  put  on  a  shoe,  and  may 
be  it  won't  be  the  last;  for  here  is  no  want  of  paving- 
stones  to  make  hammers  in  plenty." 

No  sooner  was  Larry  off,  than  off  w^th  a  spring  came 
the  young  woman  just  at  hi^  side.  Her  feet  touched  the 
ground  without  making  the  least  noise  in  life,  and  away 
she  bounded  like  an  ill-mannered  wench,  as  she  was,  with- 
out saying,  "  by  your  leave,"  or  no  matter  what  else.  She 
seemed  to  glide  rather  than  run,  not  along  the  road,  but 
across  a  field,  up  towards  the  old  ivy-covered  walls  of 
Kilnaslattery  church — and  a  pretty  church  it  was. 

*«  Not  so  fast,  if  you  please,  young  woman — not  so  fast," 
cried  Larry,  calling  after  her:  but  away  she  ran,  and  Larry 
followed,  his  leathern  garment,  already  described,  crack, 
crick,  crackling  at  every  step  he  took.  "Where's  my 
wages?"  said  Larry:  "  Thorum  pog,  ma  colleen  oge^'f — sure 

*  A  monotonous  song;  a  drowsy  humming  noise. 
t  Give  me  a  kiss,  my  young  girl. 


THE   GOOD  WOMAN.  ^§^ 

I've  earned  a  kiss  from  your  pair  of  pretty  lips — and  I'll 
have  it  too!"  But  slie  went  on  faster  and  faster,  regard- 
less of  these  and  other  flattering  speeches  from  her  pur- 
suer; at  last  she  came  to  the  church-yard  wall,  and  then 
over  with  her  in  an  instant. 

"  Well,  she's  a  might}^  smart  creature  any  how.  To  be 
sure,  how  neat  she  steps  upon  her  pasterns!  Did  any  one 
ever  see  the  like  of  that  before; — but  I'll  not  be  balked 
by  any  woman  that  ever  wore  a  head,  or  any  ditch  either," 
exclaimed  Larry,  as  with  a  desperate  bound  he  vaulted, 
scrambled,  and  tumbled  over  the  wall  into  the  church- 
yard. Up  he  got  from  the  elastic  sod  of  a  newly-made 
grave  in  which  Tade  Leary  that  morning  was  buried — - 
rest  his  soul! — and  on  went  Larry,  stumbling  over  head- 
stones, and  foot-stones,  over  old  graves  and  new  graves, 
pieces  of  coffins,  and  the  skulls  and  bones  of  dead  men — 
the  Lord  save  us! — that  were  scattered  about  there  as  plenty 
as  paving-stones;  floundering  amidst  great  overgrown 
dock-leaves  and  brambles  that,  with  their  long  prickly- 
arms,  tangled  round  his  limbs,  and  held  him  back  with  a 
fearful  grasp.  Mean  time  the  merry  wench  in  the  cloak 
moved  through  all  these  obstructions  as  evenly  and  as 
gaily  as  if  the  church-yard,  crowded  up  as  it  was  with 
graves  and  grave-stones  (for  people  came  to  be  buried  there 
from  far  and  near,)  had  been  the  floor  of  a  dancing-room. 
Round  and  round  the  walls  of  the  old  church  she  went. 
"I'll  just  wait,"  said  Larry,  seeing  this,  and  thinking  it  all 
nothing  but  a  trick  to  frighten  him;  "when  she  comes 
round  again,  if  I  don't  take  the  kiss,  I  won't,  that's  all, — 
and  here  she  is!"  Larry  Dodd  sprang  forward  with  open 
arms,  and  clasped  in  them — a  vvonian,  it  is  true — but  a 
woman  without  any  lips  to  kiss,  by  reason  of  her  having 
no  head. 

"  Murder!"  cried  he.  "  Well,  that  accounts  for  her  not 
speaking."  Having  uttered  these  words,  Larry  himself 
became  dumb  with  fear  and  astonishment;  his  blood  seemed 
turned  to  ice,  and  a  dizziness  came  over  him;  and,  stagger- 
ing like  a  drunken  man,  he  rolled  against  the  broken  win 
dow  of  the  ruin,  horrified  at  the  conviction  that  he  had 
actually  held  a  Dullahan  in  his  embrace! 

When  he  recovered  to  something  like  a  feeling  of  con- 


160  THE  GOOD  WOMAN. 

sciousness,  he  slowly  opened  his  eyes,  and  then,  indeed,  a 
scene  of  wonder  burst  upon  him.     In  the  midst  of  the  ruin 
stood  an  old  wheel  of  torture,  ornamented  with  heads,  like 
Cork  gaol,  when  the  heads  of  Murty  Sullivan  and  other 
gentlemen  were  stuck  upon  it.     This  was  plainly  visible 
in  the  strange  light  which  spread  itself  around.     It  was 
fearful  to  behold,  but  Larry  could  not  choose  but  look,  for 
his  limbs  were  powerless  through  the  wonder  and  the  fear. 
Useless  as  it  was,  he  would  have  called  for  help,  but  his 
tongue  cleaved  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  and  not  one  word 
could  he  say.     In  short,  there  was  Larry,  gazing  through 
a  shattered  window  of  the  old  church,  with  eyes  bleared 
and  almost  starting  from  their  sockets;  his  breast  resting 
on  the  thickness  of  the  wall,  over  which,  on  one  side,  his 
head  and  outstretched  neck  projected,  and  on  the  other, 
although  one  toe  touched  the  ground,  it  derived  no  support 
from  thence:  terror,  as  it  were,  kept  him  balanced.    Strange 
noises  assailed  his  ears,  until  at  last  they  tingled  painfully 
to  the  sharp  clatter  of  little  bells,  which  kept  up  a  con- 
tinued ding — ding — ding — ding:  marrowless  bones  ratiled 
and  clanked,  and  the  deep  and  solemn  sound  of  a  great  bell 
came  booming  on  the  night  wind. 

'Twas  a  spectre  rung 
That  bell  when  it  swung — 

Swing-swang! 
And  the  chain  it  squeaked, 
And  the  pulley  creaked, 

Swing-swang ! 

And  with  every  roll 
Of  the  deep  death  toll 

Ding-dong! 
The  hollow  vault  rang 
As  the  clapper  went  bang, 

Ding-dong! 

It  was  strange  music  to  dance  by;  nevertheless,  moving 
to  it,  round  and  round  the  wheel  set  with  skulls,  were 
well-dressed  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  soldiers  and  sailors, 
and  priests  and  publicantJ,  and  jockeys  and  Jennys,  but  all 
without  their  heads.  Some  poor  skeletons,  whose  bleached 
bones  were  ill  covered  by  moth-eaten  palls,  and  who  were 


THE  GOOD  WOMAN.  161 

not  admitted  into  the  ring,  amused  themselves  by  bowling 
their  brainless  noddles  at  one  another,  which  seemed  to 
enjoy  the  sport  beyond  measure. 

Larry  did  not  know  what  to  think;  his  brains  were  all 
in  a  mist;  and  losing  the  balance  which  he  had  so  long 
maintained,  he  fell  head  foremost  into  the  midst  of  the 
company  of  Dullahans. 

"I'm  done  for  and  lost  for  ever,"  roared  Larry,  with 
his  heels  turned  towards  the  stars,  and  souse  down  he 
came. 

"  Welcome,  Larry  Dodd,  welcome,"  cried  every  head, 
bobbing  up  and  down  in  the  air.  "A  drink  for  Larry 
Dodd,"  shouted  they,  as  with  one  voice,  that  quavered 
like  a  shake  on  the  b;igpipes.  No  sooner  said  than  done, 
for  a  player  at  heads,  catching  his  own  as  it  was  bowled  at 
him,  for  fear  of  its  going  astray,  jumped  up,  put  the  head, 
without  a  word,  under  his  left  arm,  and,  with  the  right 
stretched  out,  presented  a  brimming  cup  to  Larry,  who,  to 
show  his  manners,  drank  it  off  like  a  man. 

"'Tis  capital  stuff,"  he  would  have  said,  which  surely  it 
was,  but  he  got  no  farther  than  cap,  when  decapitated  was 
he,  and  his  head  began  dancing  over  his  shoulders  like 
those  of  the  rest  of  the  party.  Larry,  however,  was  not 
the  first  man  who  lost  his  head  through  the  temptation  of 
looking  at  the  bottom  of  a  brimming  cup.  Nothing  more 
did  he  remember  clearly, — for  it  seems  body  and  head  be- 
ing parted  is  not  very  favourable  to  thought — but  a  great 
hurry  scurry  with  the  noise  of  carriages  and  the  cracking 
of  whips. 

When  his  senses  returned,  his  first  act  was  to  put  up  his 
hand  to  where  his  head  formerly  grew,  and  to  his  great 
joy  there  he  found  it  still.  He  then  shook  it  gently,  but 
his  head  remained  firm  enough,  and  somewhat  assured  at 
this,  he  proceeded  to  open  his  eyes  and  look  around  him. 
It  was  broad  daylight,  and  in  the  old  church  of  Kilnaslat- 
tery  he  found  himself  lying,  with  that  head,  the  loss  of 
which  he  had  anticipated,  quietly  resting,  poor  yo:ith, 
*' upon  the  lap  of  earth."  Could  it  have  been  an  ugly 
dream?  "Oh  no,"  said  Larry,  "a  dream  could  never  have 
brought  me  here,  stretched  on  the  flat  of  my  back,  with 
that  death's  liead  and  cross  marrow  bones  forenenting  me 

14* 


1  62  THE  GOOD  WOMAN. 

on  the  fine  old  tombstone  there  that  was  faced  by  Pat 
Kearney*  of  Kilcrea — but  where  is  the  horse?"  He  got 
up  slowly,  every  joint  aching  with  pain  from  the  bruises 
he  had  received,  ~and  went  to  the  pool  of  water,  but  no 
horse  was  there.  "  'Tis  home  I  must  go,"  said  Larry, 
with  a  rueful  countenance;  "but  how  will  1  face  Nancy? — 
what  will  I  tell  her  about  the  horse,  and  the  seven  I.  0. 
U.^s  that  he  cost  me? — 'Tis  them  Dullahans  that  have 
made  their  own  of  him  from  me — the  horse-stealing  robbers 
of  the  world,  that  have  no  fear  of  the  gallows! — but  what's 
gone  is  gone,  that's  a  clear  case!" — so  saying,  he  turned 
his  steps  homewards,  and  arrived  at  his  cabin  about  noon 
without  encountering  any  farther  adventures.  There  he 
found  Nancy,  who,  as  he  expected,  looked  as  black  as  a 
thundercloud  at  him  for  being  out  all  night.  She  listened 
to  the  marvellous  relation  which  he  gave  with  exclamations 
of  astonishment,  and,  when  he  had  concluded,  of  grief,  at 
the  loss  of  the  horse  that  he  had  paid  for  like  an  honest 
man  with  seven  I.  0.  U.'s,  three  of  which  she  knew  to  be 
as  good  as  gold. 

"  But  what  took  you  up  to  the  old  church  at  all,  out  of 
the  road,  and  at  that  time  of  the  night,  Larry?"  inquired 
his  wife. 

Larry  looked  like  a  criminal  for  whom  there  was  no 
reprieve;  he  scratched  his  head  for  an  excuse,  but  not  one 
could  he  muster  up,  so  he  knew  not  what  to  say. 

«^0h!  Larry,  Larry,"  muttered  Nancy,  after  waiting  some 
time  for  his  answer,  her  jealous  fears  during  the  pause 
rising  like  barm;  "'tis  the  very  same  way  with  you  as 
with  any  other  man — you  are  all  alike  for  that  matter — 
I've  no  pity  for  you — but,  confess  the  truth." 

Larry  shuddered  at  the  tempest  which  he  perceived  was 
about  to  break  upon  his  devoted  head. 

"Nancy,"  said  he,  "I  do  confess: — it  was  a  young  wo- 
man without  any  head  that " 

His  wife  heard  no  more.  "A  woman  I  knew  it  was," 
cried  she;  "  but  a  woman  without  a  head,  Larry! — well,  it 
is  long  before  Nancy  Gollagher  ever  thought  it  -would 
come  to  that  with  her! — that  she  would  be  left  dissolute 
and  alone  here  by  her  baste  of  a  husband,  for  a  woman 

*  Faced,  so  written  by  the  Chantre}^  of  Kilcrea,  for  ^^fecit,^^ 


THE  GOOD  WOMAN.  163 

without  a  head! — 0  father,  father!  and  0  mother,  mother! 
it  is  well  you  are  low  to-day! — that  you  don't  see  this 
affliction  and  disgrace  to  your  daughter  that  you  reared 
decent  and  tender. 

"0  Larry,  you  villain,  you'll  be  the  death  of  your  law- 
ful wife  going  after  such  0 — 0 — 0 — " 

"Well,"  says  Larry,  putting  his  hands  in  his  coat- 
pockets,  "least  said  is  soonest  mended.  Of  the  young 
woman  I  know  no  more  than  I  do  of  Moll  Flanders:  but 
this  I  know,  that  a  woman  without  a  head  may  well  be 
called  a  Good  Woman,  because  she  has  no  tongue!" 

How  this  remark  operated  on  the  matrimonial  dispute 
history  does  not  inform  us.  It  is,  however,  reported  that 
the  lady  had  the  last  word. 


HANLON'S   MILL. 


XXVIL 


One  fine  summer's  evening  Michael  Noonan  went  over 
to  Jack  Brien's,  the  shoemaker,  at  Ballyduff,  for  the  pair 
of  brogues  which  Jack  was  mending  for  him.  It  was  a 
pretty  walk  the  way  he  took,  but  very  lonesome;  all  along 
by  the  river-side,  down  under  the  oak-wood,  till  he  came 
to  Hanlon's  mill,  that  used  to  be,  but  that  had  gone  to  ruin 
many  a  long  year  ago. 

Melancholy  enough  the  walls  of  that  same  mill  looked; 
the  great  old  wheel,  black  with  age,  all  covered  over  with 
moss  and  ferns,  and  the  bushes  all  hanging  down  about  it. 
There  it  stood  silent  and  motionless;  and  a  sad  contrast  it 
was  to  its  former  busy  clack,  with  the  stream  which  once 
gave  it  use  rippling  idly  along. 

Old  Hanlon  was  a  man  that  had  great  knowledge  of  all 
sorts;  there  was  not  an  herb  that  grew  in  the  field  but  he 
could  tell  the  name  of  it  and  its  use,  out  of  a  big  book  he 
had  written,  every  word  of  it  in  the  real  Irish  karacter.  He 
kept  a  school  once,  and  could  teach  the  Latin;  that  surely 
is  a  blessed  tongue  all  over  the  wide  world;  and  I  hear  tell 


164  hanlon's  mill. 

as  how  "the  great  Burke"  went  to  school  to  him.  Master 
Edmund  lived  up  at  the  old  house  there,  which  was  then 
in  the  family,  and  it  was  the  Nagles  that  got  it  afterwards, 
but  they  sold  it. 

But  it  was  Michael  Noonan's  walk  I  was  about  speak- 
ing of.  It  was  fairly  between  lights,  the  day  was  clean 
gone,  and  the  moon  was  not  yet  up,  when  Mick  was  walk- 
ing smartly  across  the  Inch.  Well,  he  heard,  coming  down 
out  of  the  wood,  such  blowing  of  horns  and  hallooing,  and 
the  cry  of  all  the  hounds  in  the  world,  and  he  thought 
they  were  coming  after  him;  and  the  galloping  of  the 
horses,  and  the  voice  of  the  whipper-in,  and  he  shouting 
out,  just  like  the  fine  old  song, 

"Hallo  Piper,  Lilly,  agus  Finder;" 

and  the  echo  over  from  the  gray  rock  across  the  river 
giving  back  every  word  as  plainly  as  it  was  spoken.  But 
nothing  could  Mick  see,  and  the  shouting  and  hallooing 
following  him  every  step  of  the  way  till  he  got  up  to  Jack 
Brien's  door;  and  he  was  certain,  too,  he  heard  the  clack 
of  old  Hanlon's  mill  going,  through  all  the  clatter.  To  be 
sure,  he  ran  as  fast  as  fear  and  his  legs  could  carry  him, 
and  never  once  looked  behind  him,  well  knowing  that  the 
Duhallow  hounds  were  out  in  quite  another  quarter  that 
day,  and  that  nothing  good  could  come  out  of  the  noise  of 
Hanlon's  mill. 

Well,  Michael  Noonan  got  his  brogues,  and  well  heeled 
they  were,  and  well  pleased  was  he  with  them;  when  who 
should  be  seated  at  Jack  Brien's  before  him,  but  a  gossip 
of  his,  one  Darby  Haynes,  a  mighty  decent  man,  that  had 
a  horse  and  car  of  his  own,  and  that  used  to  be  travelling 
with  it,  taking  loads  like  the  royal  mail  coach  between 
Cork  and  Limerick;  and  when  he  was  at  home,  Darby  was 
a  near  neighbour  of  Michael  Noonan's. 

"Is  it  home  you're  going  with  the  brogues  this  blessed 
night?"  said  Darby  to  him. 

"  Where  else  would  it  be?"  replied  Mick;  "  but,  by  my 
word,  'tis  not  across  the  Inch  back  again  I'm  going,  after 
all  I  heard  coming  Iiere;  'tis  to  no  good  that  old  Hanlon's 
mill  is  busy  again." 

"True,  for  you/'  said  Darby;  "and   may  be  you'd  take 


165 

the  horse  and  car  home  for  me,  Mick,  by  way  of  company, 
as  'tis  along  the  road  you  go.  Pm  waiting  here  to  see  a 
sister's  son  of  mine  that  I  expect  from  Kilcoleman."  "  That 
same  I'll  do,"  answered  Mick, "with  a  thousand  welcomes." 
So  Mick  drove  the  car  fair  and  easy,  knowing  that  the  poor 
beast  had  come  off  a  long  journey;  and  Mick — God  reward 
him  for  it — was  always  tender-hearted  and  good  to  the 
dumb  creatures. 

The  night  was  a  beautiful  one;  the  moon  was  better  than 
a  quarter  old;  and  Mick,  looking  up  at  her,  could  not  help 
bestowing  a  blessing  on  her  beautiful  face,  shining  down 
so  sweetly  upon  the  gentle  Awbeg.  He  had  now  got  out 
of  the  open  road,  and  had  come  to  where  the  trees  grew 
on  each  side  of  it:  he  proceeded  for  some  space  in  the 
chequered  light  which  the  moon  gave  through  them.  At 
one  time,  when  a  big  old  tree  got  between  him  and  the 
moon,  it  was  so  dark,  that  he  could  hardly  see  the  horse's 
head;  then,  as  he  passed  on,  the  moonbeams  would  stream 
through  the  open  boughs  and  variegate  the  road  with  light 
and  shade.  Mick  was  lying  down  in  the  car  at  his  ease, 
having  got  clear  of  the  plantation,  and  was  watching  the 
bright  piece  of  a  moon  in  a  little  pool  at  the  road-side, 
when  he  saw  it  disappear  all  of  a  sudden  as  if  a  great  cloud 
came  over  the  sky.  He  turned  round  on  his  elbow  to  see 
if  it  was  so;  but  how  was  Mick  astonished  at  finding,  close 
along-side  of  the  car,  a  great  high  black  coach  drawn  by 
six  black  horses,  with  long  black  tails  reaching  almost 
down  to  the  ground,  and  a  coachman  dressed  all  in  black 
sitting  up  on  the  box.  But  what  surprised  Mick  the  most 
was,  that  he  could  see  no  sign  of  a  head  either  upon  coach- 
man or  horses.  It  swept  rapidly  by  him,  and  he  could 
perceive  the  horses  raising  their  feet  as  if  they  were  in  a 
fine  slinging  trot,  the  coachman  touching  them  up  with  his 
long  whip,  and  the  wheels  spinning  round  like  hoddy- 
doddies;  still  he  could  hear  no  noise,  only  the  regular  step 
of  his  gossip  Darby's  horse,  and  the  squeaking  of  the  gud- 
geons of  the  car,  that  were  as  good  as  lost  entirely  for 
want  of  a  little  grease. 

Poor  Mick's  heart  almost  died  within  him,  but  he  said 
nothing,  only  looked  on;  and  the  black  coach  swept  away 


166 

and  was  soon  lost  among  some  distant  trees.  Mick  saw 
nothing  more  of  it,  or,  indeed,  of  any  thing  else.  He  got 
home  just  as  the 'moon  was  going  down  beliind  Mount 
Hilleiy — took  the  tackling  off  the  horse,  turned  the  beast 
out  in  the  field  for  the  night,  and  got  to  his  bed. 

Next  morning,  early,  he  was  standing  at  the  road-side, 
thinking  of  all  that  had  happened  tlie  night  before,  when 
he  saw  Dan  Madden,  that  was  Mr.  Wrixon's  huntsman, 
coming  on  the  master's  best  horse  down  the  hill,  as  hard 
as  ever  he  went  at  the  tail  of  the  hounds.  Mick's  mind 
instantly  misgave  him  that  all  was  not  right,  so  he  stood 
out  in  the  very  middle  of  the  road,  and  caught  hold  of 
Dan's  bridle  when  he  came  up. 

"Mick,  dear — for  the  love  of  heaven!  don't  stop  me," 
cried  Dan. 

"  Why,  what's  the  hurry?"  said  Mick, 

"Oh,  the  master! — he's  off, — he's  off — he'll  never  cross 
a  horse  again  till  the  day  of  judgment!" 

"Why,  what  would  ail  his  honour?"  said  Mick;  "sure 
it  is  no  later  than  yesterday  morning  that  I  was  .talking  to 
him,  and  he  stout  and  hearty;  and  says  he  to  me,  Mick, 
says  he — " 

"Stout  and  hearty  was  he?"  answered  Madden;  "and 
was  he  not  out  with  me  in  the  kennel  last  night,  when  I 
was  feeding  the  dogs;  and  didn't  he  come  out  to  the  stable, 
and  give  a  ball  to  Peg  Pullaway  with  his  own  hand,  and 
tell  me  he'd  ride  the  old  General  to-day;  and  sure,"  said 
Dan,  wiping  his  eyes  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  "who'd 
have  thought  that  the  first  thing  I'd  see  this  morning  was 
the  mistress  standing  at  my  bed-side,  and  bidding  me  get  up 
and  ride  off  like  fire  for  Doctor  Galway;  for  the  master  had 
got  a  fit,  and  " — poor  Dan's  grief  choked  his  voice — "oh, 
Mick!  if  you  have  a  heart  in  you,  run  over  yourself,  or 
send  the  gossoon  for  Kate  Finnigan,  the  midwife;  she's  a 
cruel  skilful  woman,  and  may  be  she  might  save  the  mas- 
ter, till  I  get  the  doctor." 

Dan  struck  his  spurs  into  the  hunter,  and  Michael 
Noonan  flung  off  his  newly-mended  brogues,  and  cut 
across  the  fields  to  Kate  Finnigan's;  but  neither  the  doc- 
tor nor  Katty  was  of  any  avail,  and  the  next  night's  moon 


THE  DEATH  COACH.  167 

saw  Ballygibblin — and  niore's  the  pity — a  house  of  mourn- 
ing. 


THE   DEATH   COACH. 


XXVIII. 

'Tis  midnight! — how  gloomy  and  dark! 

By  Jupiter  there's  not  a  slar! — 
'Tis  fearful! — 'tis  awful! — and  hark! 

What  sound  is  that  comes  from  afar? 

Still  rolling  and  rumbling,  that  sound 
Makes  nearer  and  nearer  approach; 

Do  I  tremble,  or  is  it  the  ground? — 
Lord  save  us! — what  is  it? — a  coach! — 

A  coach!-— but  that  coach  has  no  head; 

And  the  horses  are  headless  as  it: 
Of  the  driver  the  same  may  be  said, 

And  the  passengers  inside  who  sit. 

See  the  wheels!  how  they  fly  o'er  the  stones! 

And  whirl,  as  the  whip  it  goes  crack: 
Their  spokes  are  of  dead  men's  thigh  bones, 

And  the  pole  is  the  spine  of  the  back! 

The  hammer-cloth,  shabby  display, 
Is  a  pall  rather  mildew'd  by  damps; 


168  THE  DEATH  COACH. 

And  to  light  this  strange  coach  on  its  way, 
Two  hollow  skulls  hang  up  for  lamps! 

From  the  gloom  of  Rathcooney  church-yard, 
They  dash  down  the  hill  of  Glanmire; 

Pass  Lota  in  gallop  as  hard 

As  if  horses  were  never  to  tire! 

With  people  thus  headless  'tis  fun 

To  drive  in  such  furious  career; 
Since  headlong  their  horses  can't  run, 

Nor  coachman  be  heady  from  beer. 

Very  steep  is  the  Tivoli  lane, 

But  up-hill  to  them  is  as  down; 
Nor  the  charms  of  Woodhill  can  detain 

These  Dullahans  rushing  to  town. 

Could  they  feel  as  I've  felt — in  a  song — 

A  spell  that  forbade  them  depart; 
They'd  a  lingering  visit  prolong, 

And  after  their  head  lose  their  heart! 

No  matter! — 'tis  past  twelve  o'clock; 

Through  the  streets  they  sweep  on  like  the  wind. 
And,  taking  the  road  to  Blackrock, 

Cork  city  is  soon  left  behind. 

Should  they  hurry  thus  reckless  along. 

To  supper  instead  of  to  bed, 
The  landlord  will  surely  be  wrong, 

If  he  charge  it  at  so  much  a  head ! 

Yet  mine  host  may  suppose  them  too  poor 

To  bring  to  his  wealth  an  increase; 
As  till  now,  all  who  drove  to  his  door, 

Possess'd  at  least  one  crown  a-piece. 

Up  the  Dead  woman's  hill  they  are  roU'd; 

Boreenmannah  is  quite  out  of  sight; 
Ballintemple  they  reach,  and  behold! 

At  its  church-yard  they  stop  and  alight. 


THE  HEADLESS  HORSEMAN.  169 

"Who's  there?"  said  a  voice  from  the  ground, 
"We've  no  room,  for  the  place  is  quite  full.'* 

"0!  room  must  be  speedily  founcf, 
For  we  come  from  the  parish  of  Skull. 

"Though  Murphys  and  Crowleys  appear 

On  headstones  of  deep-letter'd  pride; 
Though  Scannels  and  Murieys  lie  here, 

Fitzgeralds  and  Toonies  beside; 

"  Yet  here  for  the  night  we  lie  down, 

To-morrow  we  speed  on  the  gale; 
For  having  no  heads  of  our  own, 

We  seek  the  Old  Head  of  Kinsale." 


THE  HEADLESS  HORSEMAN. 
XXIX. 

"  God  speed  you,  and  a  safe  journey  this  night  to  you, 
Charley,"  ejaculated  the  master  of  the  little  she.ebeen 
house  at  Ballyhooley  after  his  old  friend  and  good  Custo- 
mer, Charley  Culnane,  who  at  length  had  turned  his  face 
homewards,  with  the  prospect  of  as  dreary  a  ride  and  as 
dark  a  night  as  ever  fell  upon  the  Blackwater,  along  the 
banks  of  which  he  was  about  to  journey. 

Charley  Culnane  knew  the  country  well,  and,  moreover, 

was  as   bold  a  rider  as  any  Mallow-boy  that  ever  rattled 

a  four-year-old  upon  Drumrue  race-course.     He  had  gone 

to  Fermoy  in  the  morning,  as  well  for  the  purpose  of  pur- 

15 


170  THE  HEADLESS  HORSEMAN. 

chasing  some  ingredients  required  for  the  Christmas  din- 
ner by  his  wife,  as  to  gratify  his  own  vanity  by.  having 
new  reins  fitted  to  his  snaffle,  in  which  he  intended  show- 
ing off  the  old  mare  at  the  approaching  St.  Stephen's  day 
hunt. 

Charley  did  not  get  out  of  Fermoy  until  late;  for  al- 
though he  was  not  one  of  your  '^  nasty  particular  sort  of 
fellows  "  in  any  thing  that  related  to  the  common  occur- 
rences of  life,  yet  in  all  the  appointments  connected  with 
hunting,  riding,  leaping,  in  short,  in  whatever  was  con- 
nected with  the  old  mare,  "  Charley,"  the  saddlers  said, 
"was  the  devil  to  plase.''  An  illustration  of  this  fastidi- 
ousness was  afforded  by  his  going  such  a  distance  for  his 
snaffle  bridle.  Mallow  was  full  twelve  miles  nearer 
"  Charley's  farm  "  (which  lay  just  three  quarters  of  a  mile 
below  Carrick)  than  Fermoy;  but  Charley  had  quarrelled 
with  all  the  Mallow  saddlers,  from  hard-working  and  hard- 
drinking  Tim  Clance}",  up  to  Mr.  Ryan,  who  wrote  him- 
self "Saddler  to  the  Duhallow  Hunt;"  and  no  one  could 
content  him  in  all  particulars  but  honest  Michael  Twomey 
of  Fermoy,  who  used  to  assert — and  who  will  doubt  it — 
that  he  could  stitch  a  saddle  better  than  the  lord-lieutenant, 
although  they  made  him  all  as  one  as  king  over  Ireland. 

This  delay  in  the  arrangement  of  the  snaffle  bridle  did 
not  allow  Charley  Culnane  to  pay  so  long  a  visit  as  he  had 
at  first  intended  to  his  old  friend  and  gossip,  Con  Buckley, 
of  the  "  Harp  of  Erin."  Con,  however,  knew  the  value 
of  time,  and  insisted  upon  Charley  making  good  use  of 
what  he  had  to  spare.  "I  won't  bother  you  waiting  for 
water,  Charley,  because  I  think  you'll  have  enough  of  that 
same  before  you  get  home;  so  drink  off  your  liquor,  man. 
It's  as  good  parliament  as  ever  a  gentleman  tasted,  ay,  and 
holy  church  too,  for  it  will  bear  ^x  waierSi  and  carry  the 
bead  after  that,  may  be." 

Charley,  it  must  be  confessed,  nothing  loath,  drank  suc- 
cess to  Con,  and  success  to  the  jolly  "Harp  of  Erin,"  with 
its  head  of  beauty  and  its  strings  of  the  hair  of  gold,  and 
to  their  better  acquaintance,  and  so  on,  from  the  bottom 
of  his  soul,  until  the  bottom  of  the  bottle  reminded  him 
that  Carrick  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  on  the  other 


THE  HEADLESS  HORSEMAN.  171 

side  of  Castletown  Roche,  and  that  he  had  got  no  farther 
on  his -journey  than  his  gossip's  at  Ballyhooley,  close  to 
the  big  gate  of  Convamore.  Catching  hold  of  his  oil-skin 
hat,  therefore,  whilst  Con  Buckley  went  to  the  cupboard 
for  another  bottle  of  the  "real  stuff,"  he  regularly,  as  it  is 
termed,  bolted  from  his  friend's  hospitality,  darted  to  the 
stable,  tightened  his  girths,  and  put  the  old  mare  into  a 
canter  towards  home. 

The  road  from  Ballyhooley  to  Carrick  follows  pretty 
nearly  the  course  of  the  Blackwater,  occasionally  diverg- 
ing from  the  river  and  passing  through  rather  wild  scenery, 
when  contrasted  with  the  beautiful  seats  that  adorn  its 
banks.  Charley  cantered  gaily,  regardless  of  the  rain, 
which,  as  his  friend  Con  had  anticipated,  fell  in  torrents: 
the  good  woman's  currants  and  raisins  were  carefully 
packed  between  the  folds  of  his  yeomanry  cloak,  vvhich 
Charle}^,  who  was  proud  of  showing  that  he  belonged  to 
the  "Royal  Mallow  Light  Horse  Volunteers,"  always 
strapped  to  the  saddle  before  him,  and  took  care  never  to 
destroy  the  military  effect  of  by  putting  it  on. — Away  he 
went  singing  like  a  thrush — 

"  Sporting-,  belleing,  dancing,  drinking, 
Breaking  windows — (hiccvp!) — sinking, 
Ever  raking — never  thinking, 

Live  the  rakes  of  Mallow. 

"  Spending  faster  than  it  conies, 
Beating — (hiccup,  hie,)  and  duns, 
Duhallow's  true-begotten  sons. 

Live  the  rakes  of  Mallow." 

Notwithstanding  that  the  visit  to  the  jolly  "  Harp  of 
Erin  "  had  a  little  increased  the  natural  complacency  of 
his  mind,  the  drenching  of  the  new  snaffle  reins  began  to 
disturb  him;  and  then  followed  a  train  of  more  anxious 
thoughts  than  even  were  occasioned  by  the  dreaded  defeat 
of  the  pride  of  his  long-anticipated  turn  out  on  St.  Ste- 
phen's day.  Li  an  hour  of  good  fellowship,  when  his 
lieart  was  warm,  and  his  head  not  over  cool,  Charley  had 
backed  the  old  mare  against  Mr.  Jephson's  bay  filly  Desde- 
mona  for  a  neat  hundred,  and  he  now  felt  sore  misgivings 


172  THE  HEADLESS  HORSEMAN. 

as  to  the  prudence  of  the  match.     In  a  less  gay  tone  he 
continued — 

"  Living  short,  but  merry  lives, 
Going  where  the  devil  drives, 
Keeping——" 

«' Keeping"  he  muttered,  as  the  old   mare  had  reduced 
her  canter  to   a  trot  at  the   bottom  of  Kilcummer  Hill. 
Charley's  eye  fell  on  the  old  walls  that  belonged,  in  former 
times,  to  the  Templars:  but  the  silent  gloom  of  the  ruin 
was   broken   only  by  the   heavy  rain  which  splashed  and 
pattered   on   the  gravestones.     He  then  looked  up  at  the 
sky,  to  see  if  there  was,  among  the  clouds,  any  hopes  for 
mercy  on   his   new   snaffle  reins;   and  no  sooner  were  his 
eyes  lowered,  than  his  attention  was  arrested  by  an  object 
so  extraordinary  as  almost  led  him  to  doubt  the  evidence 
of  his  senses.     The  head,  apparently,  of  a  white  horse, 
with  short  cropped  ears,  large  open  nostrils  and  immense 
eyes,  seemed  rapidly  to  follow  him.     No  connexion  with 
body,  legs,  or  rider,  could   possibly  be  traced — the  head 
advanced— Charley's  old  mare,  too,  was  moved  at  this  un- 
natural sight,  and  snorting  violently,  increased  her  trot  up 
the  hill.     The  head  moved  forward,  and  passed  on:  Char- 
ley, pursuing  it  with   astonished  gaze,  and   wondering  by 
what   means,  and   for  what  purpose,  this  detached   head 
thus  proceeded  through  the  air,  did  not  perceive  the  cor- 
responding body  until  he  was  suddenly  startled  by  finding 
it  close  at  his  side.     Charley  turned  to  examine  what  was 
thus  so  sociably  jogging  on  with  him,  when  a  most  unex- 
ampled apparition  presented  itself  to  his  view.     A  figure, 
whose  height   (judging  as  well   as  the  obscurity  of  the 
night  would  permit  him)  he  computed   to  be  at  least  eight 
feet,  was  seated  on  the  body  and  legs  of  a  white  horse  full 
eighteen   hands  and  a  half  high.     In   this  measurement 
Charley  could  not  be  mistaken,  for  his  own  mare  was  ex- 
actly fifteen  hands,  and  the  body  that  thus  jogged  alongside 
he  could  at  once  determine,  from  his  practice  in  horseflesh, 
was  at  least  three  hands  and  a  half  higher. 

After  the  first  feeling  of  astonishment,  which  found 


THE  HEADLESS  HORSEMAN.  173 

over,  the  attention  of  Charley,  being  a  keen  sportsman, 
was  naturally  directed  to  this  extraordinary  body;  and 
having  examined  it  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  reconnoitre  the  figure  so  unusually  mounted,  who 
had  hitherto  remained  perfectly  mute.  Wishing  to  see 
whether  his  companion's  silence  proceeded  from  bad  tem- 
per, want  of  conversational  powers,  or  from  a  distaste  to 
water,  and  the  fear  that  the  opening  of  his  mouth  might 
subject  him  to  have  it  filled  by  the  rain,  which  was  then 
drifting  in  violent  gusts  against  them,  Charley  endeavoured 
to  catch  a  sight  of  his  companion's  face,  in  order  to  form 
an  opinion  on  that  point.  But  his  vision  failed  in  carrying 
him  farther  than  the  top  of  the  collar  of  the  figure's  coat, 
which  was  a  scarlet  single-breasted  hunting  frock,  having 
a  waist  of  a  very  old-fashioned  cut  reaching  to  the  saddle, 
with  two  huge  shining  buttons  at  about  a  yard  distance 
behind.  *'  I  ought  to  see  farther  than  this,  too,"  thought 
Charley,  "although  he  is  mounted  on  his  high  horse,  like 
my  cousin  Darby,  who  was  made  barony  constable  last 
week,  unless  'tis  Con's  whiskey  that  has  blinded  me  en- 
tirely." However,  see  ferther  he  could  not,  and  after 
straining  his  eyes  for  a  considerable  time  to  no  purpose, 
he  exclaimed,  with  pure  vexation,  *•  By  the  big  bridge  of 
Mallow,  it  is  no  head  at  all  he  has!" 

"Look  again,  Charley  Culnane,"  said  a  hoarse  voice, 
that  seemed  to  proceed  from  under  the  right  arm  of  the 
figure. 

Charley  did  look  again,  and  now  in  the  proper  place, 
for  he  clearly  saw,  under  the  aforesaid  right  arm,  that  head 
from  which  the  voice  had  proceeded,  and  such  a  head  no 
mortal  ever  saw  before.  It  looked  like  a  large  cream 
cheese  hung  round  with  black  puddings;  no  speck  of  colour 
enlivened  the  ashy  paleness  of  the  depressed  features;  the 
skin  lay  stretched  over  the  unearthly  surface,  almost  like 
the  parchment  head  of  a  drum.  Two  fiery  eyes  of  pro- 
digious circumference,  with  a  strange  and  irregular  motion, 
flashed  like  meteors  upon  Charley,  and  to  complete  all,  a 
mouth  reached  from  either  extremity  of  two  ears,  which 
peeped  forth  from  under  a  profusion  of  matted  locks  of 
lustreless  blackness.     This  head,  which  the  figure  had  evi- 

15* 


174  THE  HEADLESS  HORSEMAN. 

dent.ly  hitherto  concealed  from  Charley's  eyes,  now  burst 
upon  his  view  in  all  its  hideousness.  Charle}^,  although  a 
lad  of  proverbial  courage  in  the  county  of  Cork,  yet  could 
not  but  feel  his  nerves  a  little  shaken  by  this  unexpected 
visit  from  the  headless  horseman,  whom  he  considered  his 
fellow-traveller  must  be.  The  cropped-eared  head  of  the 
gigantic  horse  moved  steadily  forward,  always  keeping 
from  six  to  eight  yards  in  advance.  The  horseman,  un- 
aided by  whip  or  spur,  and  disdaining  the  use  of  stirrups, 
which  dangled  uselessly  from  the  saddle,  followed  at  a  trot 
by  Charley's  side,  his  hideous  head  now  lost  behind  the 
lappet  of  his  coat,  now  starting  forth  in  all  its  horror,  as 
the  motion  of  the  horse  caused  his  arm  to  move  to  and 
fro.  The  ground  shook  under  the  weight  of  its  super- 
natural burden,  and  the  water  in  the  pools  became  agitated 
into  waves  as  he  trotted  by  them. 

On  they  went — heads  without  bodies,  and  bodies  with- 
out heads. — The  deadly  silence  of  night  was  broken  only 
by  the  fearful  clattering  of  hoofs,  and  the  distant  sound  of 
thunder,  which  rumbled  above  the  mystic  hill  of  Cecaune 
a  Mona  Finnea.  Charley,  who  was  naturally  a  merry- 
hearted,  and  rather  a  talkative  fellow,  had  hitherto  felt 
tongue-tied  by  apprehension,  but  finding  his  companion 
showed  no  evil  disposition  towards  him,  and  having  be- 
come somewhat  more  reconciled  to  the  Patagonian  dimen- 
sions of  the  horseman  and  his  headless  steed,  plucked  up 
all  his  courage,  and  thus  addressed  the  stranger: — 

"  Why,  then,  your  honour  rides  mighty  well  without 
the  stirrups!" 

''Humph,"  growled  the  head  from  under  the  horseman's 
right  arm. 

"  'Tis  not  an  over  civil  answer,"  thought  Charley;  "but 
no  matter,  he  was  taught  in  one  of  them  riding-houses, 
may  be,  and  thinks  nothing  at  all  about  bumping  his  leather 
breeches  at  the  rate  of  ten  miles  an  hour.  I'll  try  him  on 
the  other  track.  Ahem  !"  said  Charley,  clearing  his  throat, 
and  feeling  at  the  same  time  rather  daunted  at  this  second 
attempt  to  establish  a  conversation.  "  Ahem !  that's  a 
mighty  neat  coat  of  your  honour's,  although  'tis  a  little 
too  long  in  the  waist  for  the  present  cut." 


THE  HEADLESS  HORSEMAN.  175 

"Humph,"  growled  again  the  head. 

This  second  humph  was  a  terrible  thump  in  the  face  to 
poor  Charley,  who  was  fairly  bothered  to  know  what  sub- 
ject he  could  start  that  would  prove  more  agreeable, 
«'Tis  a  sensible  head,"  thought  Charley, '^although  an 
ugly  one,  for  'tis  plain  enough  the  man  does  not  like  flat- 
tery." A  third  attempt,  however,  Charley  was  determined 
to  make,  and  having  failed  in  his  observations  as  to  the 
riding  and  coat  of  his  fellow4raveller,  thought  he  would 
just  drop  a  trifling  allusion  to  the  wonderful  headless  horse, 
that  was  jogging  on  so  sociably  beside  his  old  mare;  and 
as  Charley  was  considered  about  Carrick  to  be  very  know- 
ing in  horses,  besides,  being  a  full  private  in  the  Royal 
Mallow  Light  Horse  Volunteers,  which  were  every  one 
of  them  mounted  like  real  Hessians,  he  felt  rather  sanguine 
as  to  the  result  of  his  third  attempt. 

"  To  be  sure,  that's  a  brave  horse  your  honour  rides," 
recommenced  the  persevering  Charley. 

"  You  may  say  that,  with  your  own  ugly  mouth," 
growled  the  head. 

Charley,  though  not  much  flattered  by  the  compliment, 
nevertheless  chuckled  at  his  success  in  obtaining  an  answer, 
and  thus  continued: — 

**JVlay  be  your  honour  wouldn't  be  after  riding  him 
across  the  country?" 

«  Will  you  try  me,  Charley?"  said  the  head,  with  an 
inexpressible  look  of  ghastly  delight. 

"  Faith,  and  that's  what  I'd  do,"  responded  Charley, 
"only  I'm  afraid,  the  night  being  so  dark,  of  laming  the 
old  mare,  and  I've  every  halfpenny  of  a  hundred"  pounds 
on  her  heels." 

This  was  true  enough;  Charley's  courage  was  nothing 
dashed  at  the  headless  horseman's  proposal;  and  there 
never  was  a  steeple-chase,  nor  a  fox-chase,  riding  or  leaping 
in  the  country,  that  Charley  Culnane  was  not  at  it,  and 
foremost  in  it. 

"  Will  you  take  my  word,"  said  the  man  who  carried 
his  head  so  snugly  under  his  right  arm,  "for  the  safety  of 
your  mare?" 

"Done,"  said  Charley;  and  away  they  started,  heller 


176  THE  HEADLESS  HORSEMAN. 

skelter,  over  every  thing,  ditch  and  wall,  pop,  pop,  the 
old  mare  never  went  in  such  style,  even  in  broad  daylight: 
and  Charley  had  just  the  start  of  his  companion,  when  the 
hoarse  voice  called  out,  "  Charley  Culnane,  Charley,  man, 
stop  for  your  life,  stop!" 

Charley  pulled  up  hard.  '*  Ay,"  said  he,  *^you  may 
beat  me  by  the  head,  because  it  always  goes  so  much  be- 
fore you;  but  if  the  bet  was  neck-and-neck,  and  that's  the 
go  between  the  old  mare  and  Desdemona,  Pd  win  it  hol- 
low!" 

It  appeared  as  if  the  stranger  was  well  aware  of  what 
was  passing  in  Charley's  mind,  for  he  suddenly  broke  out 
quite  loquacious. 

"Charley  Culnane,"  says  he,  "you  have  a  stout  soul  in 
you,  and  are  every  inch  of  you  a  good  rider.  I've  tried 
3^ou,  and  I  ought  to  know;  and  that's  the  sort  of  man  for 
my  money.  A  hundred  years  it  is  since  my  horse  and  I 
broke  our  necks  at  the  bottom  of  Kilcummer  hill,  and 
ever  since  I  have  been  trying  to  get  a  man  that  dared  to 
ride  with  me,  and  never  found  one  before.  Keep,  as  you 
have  always  done,  at  the  tail  of  the  hounds,  never  balk  a 
ditch,  nor  turn  away  from  a  stone  wall,  and  the  headless 
horseman  will  never  desert  you  nor  the  old  mare." 

Charley,  in  amazement,  looked  towards  the  stranger's 
right  arm,  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  in  his  face  whether  or 
not  he  was  in  earnest,  but  behold!  the  head  was  snugly 
lodged  in  the  huge  pocket  of  the  horseman's  scarlet  hunt- 
ing-coat. The  horse's  head  had  ascended  perpendicularly 
above  them,  and  his  extraordinary  companion,  rising 
quickly  after  his  avant-coureur,  vanished  from  the  asto- 
nished gaze  of  Charley  Culnane. 

Charley,  as  may  be  supposed,  was  lost  in  wonder,  de- 
light, and  perplexity;  the  pelting  rain,  the  wife's  pudding, 
the  new  snaffle — even  the  match  against  squire  Jephson — 
all  were  forgotten;  nothing  could  he  think  of,  nothing 
could  he  talk  of,  but  the  headless  horseman.  He  told  it, 
directly  that  he  got  home,  to  Judy;  he  told  it  the  following 
morning  to  all  the  neighbours;  and  he  told  it  to  the  hunt 
on  St.  Stephen's  day:  but  what  provoked  him  after  all 
the  pains  he  took  in  describing  the  head,  the  horse,  and 
the  man,  was  that  one  and  all  attributed  the  creation  of  the 


THE  HEADLESS  HORSEMAN. 


177 


headless  horseman  to  his  friend  Con  Buckley's  "  X  water 
parliament."  This,  however,  should  be  told,  that  Charley's 
old  mare  beat  Mr.  Jephson's  bay  filly,  Desdemona,  by 
Diamond,  and  Charley  pocketed  his  cool  hundred;  and  if 
he  didn't  win  by  means  of  the  headless  horseman,  I  am 
sure  I  don't  know  any  other  reason  for  his  doing  so. 


DuLLAHAN  or  DuLACHAN  Signifies  a  dark  sullen  person.  The 
word  Durrachan  or  Dullahariy  by  which  in  some  places  the  goblin 
is  known,  has  the  same  signification.  It  comes  from  Dorr  or  Durr, 
anger,  or  Durrach,  malicious,  fierce,  &c. — MS.  communication 
from  the  late  Mr.  Edward  O'Reilly. 

The  correctness  of  this  last  etymology  may  be  questioned,  as 
black  is  evidently  a  component  part  of  the  word. 

The  Death  Coach,  or  Headless  Coach  and  Horses,  is  called  in 
Ireland  "  Coach  a  bower;**  and  its  appearance  is  generally  regarded 
as  a  sign  of  death,  or  an  omen  of  some  misfortune. 

The  belief  in  the  appearance  of  headless  people  and  horses  ap- 
pears to  be,  like  most  popular  superstitions,  widely  extended. 

In  England,  see  the  Spectator  (No.  110)  for  mention  of  a  spirit 
that  had  appeared  in  the  shape  of  a  black  horse  without  a  head. 

In  Wales,  the  apparition  of  "  Fenyw  heb  un  pen,''*  the  headless 
woman,  and  •'  Ceffyl  heb  unpen,^*  the  headless  horse,  are  generally 
accredited. — MS.  communication  from  Miss  Williams. 

"  The  Irish  Dullahan  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  spectre  at  Drumlanrig 
Castle,  of  no  less  a  person  than  the  Duchess  of  Queensberry, — " 
*  Fair  Kitty,  blooming,  young,  and  gay,' — who,  instead  of  setting 
fire  to  the  world  in  mamma's  chariot,  amuses  herself  with  wheeling 
her  own  head  in  a  wheel-barrow  through  the  great  gallery." — MS* 
communication  from  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

In  Scotland,  so  recently  as  January,  1826,  that  veritable  paper, 
the  Glasgow  Chronicle,  records,  upon  the  occasion  of  some  silk- 
weavers  being  out  of  employment  at  Paisley,  that  "  Visions  have 
been  seen  of  carts,  caravans,  and  coaches,  going  up  Gleniffer  braes 
without  horses,  with  horses  without  heads,"  &.c. 

Cervantes  mentions  tales  of  the  "  Caballo  sin  cabeqa  among  the 
cuentos  de  viejas  con  que  se  entretienen  al  fuego  las  dilatadas 
noches  del  invierno"  &c. 

"  The  people  of  Basse  Bretagne  believe,  that  when  the  death  of 
any  person  is  at  hand,  a  hearse  drawn  by  skeletons  (which  they 
call  carriquet  au  nankon,)  and  covered  with  a  white  sheet,  passes 
by  the  house  where  the  sick  person  lies,  and  the  creaking  of  the 
wheels  may  be  plainly  heard." — Journal  des  Sciences,  1826,  com- 
municated by  Dr.  William  Grimm. 

See  also  Thiele*s  Danske  Folkesagn,  vol.  iv.  p.  66,  &c. 


THE    FIR    DARRIG 


Whene'er  such  wanderers  I  meete, 

As  from  their  night-sports  they  trudge  home, 
With  counterfeiting  voice  I  greete, 
And  call  them  on  with  me  to  roame 

Through  woods,  through  lakes, 

Through  bogs,  through  brakes; 
Or  else,  unseene,  with  them  I  go. 

All  in  the  nicke, 

To  play  some  tricke, 
And  frolicke  it,  with  ho,  ho,  ho! — Old  Song. 


DIARMID  BAWN,  THE  PIPER. 


XXX. 

One  stormy  night  Patrick  Burke  was  seated  in  the 
chimney  corner  smoking  his  pipe  quite  contentedly  after 
his  hard  day's  work;  his  two  little  boys  were  roasting  pc- 
latoes  in  the  ashes,  while  his  rosy  daughter  held  a  splinter* 

*  A  splinter,  or  slip  of  bog-deal,  which,  being  dipped  in  tallow,  is 
used  as  a  candle. 


180  DIARMID  BAWN,  THE  PIPER. 

to  her  mother,  who,  seated  on  a  siesteen,*  was  mending  a 
rent  in  Patrick's  old  coat;  and  Judy,  the  maid,  was  singing 
merrily  to  the  sound  of  her  wheel,  that  kept  up  a  beautiful 
humming  noise,  just  like  the  sweet  drone  of  a  bagpipe. 
Indeed  they  all  seemed  quite  contented  and  happy;  for  the 
storm  howled  without,  and  they  were  warm  and  snug 
within,  by  the  side  of  a  blazing  turf  fire.  "  1  was  just 
thinking,"  said  Patrick,  taking  the  dudeen  from  his  mouth 
and  giving  it  a  rap  on  his  thumb-nail  to  shake  out  the 
ashes — "I  was  just  thinking  how  thankful  we  ought  to  be  to 
have  a  snug  bit  of  a  cabin  this  pelting  night  over  our  heads, 
for  in  all  my  born  days  I  never  heard  the  like  of  it." 

"And  that's  no  lie  for  you,  Pat,"  said  his  wife;  *^  but, 
whisht!  what  noise  is  that  I  hard?^'  and  she  dropped  her 
work  upon  her  knees,  and  looked  fearfully  towards  the 
door.  *'  The  Vargin  herself  defend  us  all !"  cried  Judy,  at 
the  same  time  rapidly  making  a  pious  sign  on  her  forehead, 
«if 'tis  not  the  banshee!" 

"Hold  your  tongue,  you  fool,"  said  Patrick,  "it's  only 
the  old  gate  swinging  in  the  wind;"  and  he  had  scarcely- 
spoken,  when  the  door  was  assailed  by  a  violent  knocking. 
Molly  began  to  mumble  her  prayers,  and  Judy  proceeded 
to  mutter  over  the  muster-roll  of  saints;  the  youngsters 
scampered  off  to  hide  themselves  behind  the  settle-bed; 
the  storm  howled  louder  and  more  fiercely  than  ever,  and 
the  rapping  was  renewed  with  redoubled  violence. 

"  Whisht,  whisht!"  said  Patrick — "what  a  noise  ye're 
all  making  about  nothing  at  all.  Judy  a-roon,  can't  you 
go  and  see  who's  at  the  door.'*"  for,  notwithstanding  his 
assumed  bravery,  Pat  Burke  preferred  that  the  maid 
should  open  the  door. 

"Why,  then,  is  it  me  you're  speaking  to?"  said  Judy 
in  the  tone  of  astonishment;  "and  is  it  cracked  mad  you 
are.  Mister  Burke;  or  is  it,  may  be,  that  you  want  me  to 
be  rund  away  with,  and  made  a  horse  of,  like  my  grand- 
father was? — the  sorrow  a  step  will  1  stir  to  open  the  door, 
if  you  were  as  great  a  man  again  as  you  are,  Pat  Burke." 

"Bother  you,  then!  and  hold  your  tongue,  and  I'll  go 
myself."     So  saying,  up  got  Patrick,  and  made  the  best  of 

*  Siesteen  is  a  low  block-like  seat,  made  of  straw  bands  firmly 
sewed  or  bound  together. 


DIARMID  BAWN,  THE  PIPER.  181 

his  way  to  the  door.  "Who's  there?"  said  he,  and  his 
voice  trembled  niiy;htily  all  the  while.  **In  the  name  of 
Saint  Patrick,  who's  there?'*  " 'Tis  1,  Pat,"  answered  a 
voice  which  he  immediately  knew  to  be  the  young  squire's. 
In  a  moment  the  door  was  opened,  and  in  walked  a  young 
man,  with  a  gun  in  his  hand,  and  a  brace  of  dogs  at  his 
heels.  "Your  honour's  honour  is  quite  welcome,  entirely," 
said  Patrick;  who  was  a  very  civil  sort  of  a  fellow,  espe- 
cially to  his  betters.  "  Your  honour's  honour  is  quite 
welcome;  and  if  ye'll  be  so  condescending  as  to  demean 
yourself  by  taking  off  your  wet  jacket,  Molly  can  give  ye 
a  bran  new  blanket,  and  ye  can  sit  forenent  the  fire  while 
the  clothes  are  drying."  "Thank  you,  Pat,"  said  the 
squire,  as  he  wrapt  himself,  like  Mr.  Weld,  in  the  prof- 
fered  bhinket* 

"  But  what  made  you  keep  me  so  long  at  the  door?" 

"  Why  then,  your  honour,  'twas  all  along  of  Judy,  there, 
being  so  much  afraid  of  the  good  people;  and  a  good  right 
she  has,  after  what  happened  to  her  grandfather — the  Lord 
rest  his  soul!" 

"And  what  was  that,  Pat?"  said  the  squire. 

"Why,  then,  your  honour  must  know  that  Judy  had  a 
grandfather;  and  he  was  ould  Diarmid  Bawn,  the  piper, 
as  personable  a  looking  man  as  any  in  the  five  parishes  he 
was;  and  he  could  play  the  pipes  so  sweetly,  and  make 
them  spake  to  such  perfection,  that  it  did  one's  heart  good 
to  hear  him.  We  never  had  any  one,  for  that  matter,  in 
this  side  of  the  country  like  him,  before  or  since,  except 
James  Gandsey,  that  is  own  piper  to  Lord  Headley — his 
honour's  lordship  is  the  real  good  gentleman — and  'tis  Mr. 
Gandsey's  music  that  is  the  pride  of  Killarney  lakes. 
Well,  as  I  was  saying,  Diarmid  was  Judy's  grandfather, 
and  he  rented  a  small  mountainy  farm;  and  he  was  walk- 
ing about  the  fields  one  moonlight  night,  quite  melancholy- 
like in  himself  for  want  of  the  lobaccy;  because  why,  the 
river  was  flooded,  and  he  could  not  get  across  to  buy  any, 
and  Diarmid  would  rather  go  to  bed  without  his  supper 
than  a  whiff  of  the  dudeen.  Well,  your  honour,  just  as 
he  came  to  the  old  fort  in  the  far  field,  what  should  he  see? 

•  See  Weld's  Killarney,  8vo  cd.  p.  228. 
16 


182  DIARMID  BAWN,  THE  PIPER. 

— but  a  large  army  of  the  good  people,  'coutered  for  all 
the  world  just  like  the  dragoons!  <Are  ye  all  ready?'  said 
a  little  fellow  at  their  head  dressed  out  like  a  general. 
*No,'  said  a  little  curmudgeon  of  a  chap  all  dressed  in 
red,  from  the  crown  of  his  cocked  hat  to  the  sole  of  his 
boot.  ^ No,  general/  said  he:  <if  you  don't  get  the  Fir 
darrig  a  horse  he  must  stay  behind,  and  ye'il  lose  the 
battle.'^ 

"'There's  Diarmid  Bawn,'  said  the  general,  pointing  to 
Judy's  grandfather,  your  honour,  'make  a  horse  of  him." 
"So  with  that  master  Fir  darrig  comes  up  to  Diarmid, 
who,  you  may  be  sure,  was  in  a  mighty  great  fright;  but 
he  determined,  seeing  there  was  no  help  for  him,  to  put  a 
bold  face  on  the  matter;  and  so  he  began  to  cross  himself, 
and  to  say  some  blessed  words,  that  nothing  bad  could 
stand  before. 

"'Is  that  what  you'd  be  after,  j-ou  spalpeen?'  said  the 
little  red  imp,  at  the  same  time  grinning  a  horrible  grin; 
*l'm  not  the  man  to  care  a  straw  for  either  your  words 
or  your  crossings.'  So,  without  more  to  do,  he  gives 
poor  Diarmid  a  rap  with  the  flat  side  of  his  sword,  and 
in  a  moment  he  was  changed  into  a  horse,  with  little  Fir 
darrig  stuck  fast  on  his  back. 

"Away  they  all  flew  over  the  wide  ocean,  like  so  many 
wild  geese,  screaming  and  chattering  all  the  time,  till  they 
came  to  Jamaica;  and  there  they  had  a  murdering  fight 
with  the  good  people  of  that  country.  Well,  it  was  all 
very  well  with  them,  and  they  stuck  to  it  manfully,  and 
fought  it  out  fairly,  till  one  of  the  Jamaica  men  made  a  cut 
with  his  sword  under  Diarmid's  left  eye.  And  then,  sir, 
you  see,  poor  Diarmid  lost  his  temper  entirely,  and  he 
dashed  into  the  very  middle  of  them,  with  Fir  darrig 
mounted  upon  his  back,  and  he  threw  out  his  heels,  and 
whisked  his  tall  about,  and  wheeled  and  turned  round  and 
round  at  such  a  rate,  that  he  soon  made  a  lair  clearance  of 
them,  horse,  foot,  and  dragoons.  At  last  Diarmid's  faction 
got  the  better,  all  through  his  means;  and  then  they  had 
such  feasting  and  rejoicing,  and  gave  Diarmid,  who  was 
the  finest  horse  amongst  them  all,  the  best  of  every  thing. 
"'Let  every  man  take  a  hand  of  tobaccy  for  Diarmid 
Bawn,'  said  the  general;  and  so  they  did;  and  away  they 


DIARMID  BAVVN,  THE  PIPER. 


183 


flew,  for  'twas  getting  near  morning,  to  the  old  fort  back 
again,  and  there  they  vanished  like  the  mist  from  the 
mountain. 

"When  Diarmid  looked  about,  the  sun  was  rising,  and 
he  thought  it  was  all  a  dream,  till  he  saw  a  big  rick  of 
iobaccy  in  the  old  fort,  and  felt  the  blood  running  from  his 
left  eye:  for  sure  enough  he  was  wounded  in  the  battle, 
and  would  have  been  kilt  entirely,  if  it  wasn't  for  a  gospel 
composed  by  father  Murphy  that  hung  about  his  neck  ever 
since  he  had  the  scarlet  fever;  and  for  certain,  it  was  enough 
to  have  given  him  another  scarlet  fever  to  have  had  the 
little  red  man  all  night  on  his  back,  whip  and  spur  for  the 
bare  life.  However,  there  was  the  tobaccy  heaped  up  in  a 
great  heap  by  his  side;  and  he  heard  a  voice,  although  he 
could  see  no  one,  telling  him,  'That  'twas  all  his  own,  for 
his  good  behaviour  in  the  battle;  and  that  whenever  Fir 
darrig  would  want  a  horse  again  he'd  know  where  to  find 
a  clever  beast,  as  he  never  rode  a  better  than  Diarmid 
Bawn.'     That's  what  he  said,  sir." 

"Thank  you,  Pat,"  said  the  squire;  "it  certainly  is  a 
wonderful  story,  and  I  am  not  surprised  at  Judy's  alarm. 
But  now,  as  the  storm  is  over,  and  the  moon  shining 
brightly,  I'll  make  the  best  of  my  way  home."  So  say- 
ing, he  disrobed  himself  of  the  blanket,  put  on  his  coat, 
and  whistling  his  dogs,  set  off  across  the  mountain;  while 
Patrick  stood  at  the  door,  bawling  after  him,  "May  God 
and  the  blessed  Virgin  preserve  your  honour,  and  keep  ye 
from  the  good  people;  for  'twas  of  a  moonlight  night  like 
this  that  Diarmid  Bawn  was  made  a  horse  of,  for  the  Fir 
darrig  to  ride." 


^ 


r-^^ 


♦4*»  ^  ^*'  184 


TEIGUE   OF  THE   LEE. 


XXXI. 

"I  can't  stop  in  the  house — I  won't  stop  in  it  for  all 
the  money  that  is  btiried  in  the  olil  castle  of  Carrioi;r()[ian. 
If  ever  there  was  such  a  tliiuij  in  the  world!  —  to  be  abused 
to  my  fiice  nio;ht  and  day,  and  nobody  to  the  fore  doin*^  iiJ 
and  then,  if  Pm  ano;ry,  to  be  lauu;hed  at  with  a  i!;reat  roar- 
ing ho,  ho,  ho!  1  won't  stay  in  ihe  house  after  to-night, 
if  there  was  not  another  place  in  the  country  to  put  my 
head  under."  This  angry  soliloquy  was  pronounced  in 
the  hall  of  the  old  manor-house  of  Carrigrohan  by  John 
Sheehan.  John  was  a  new  servant:  he  had  been  only 
three  days  in  the  house,  which  had  the  character  of  being 
haunted,  and  in  that  short  space  of  time  he  had  been  abused 
and  laughed  at  by  a  voice  which  sounded  as  if  a  man  spoke 
with  his  head  in  a  cask;  nor  could  he  discover  who  was 
the  speaker,  or  from  whence  the  voice  came.  "I'll  not 
stop  here,"  said  John;  "and  that  ends  the  matter." 

"  Ho,  ho,  ho!  be  quiet,  John  Sheehan,  or  else  worse  will 
happen  to  you." 

John  instantly  ran  to  the  hall  window,  as  the  words 
were  evidently  spoken  by  a  person  immediately  outside, 
but  no  one  was  visible.  He  had  scarcely  placed  his  face 
at  the  pane  of  glass,  when  he  heard  another  loud  "Ho,  ho, 
ho!"  as  if  behind  him  in  the  hall;  as  quick  as  lightning  he 
turned  his  head,  but  no  living  thing  was  to  be  seen. 

"Ho,  ho,  ho,  John!"  shouted  a  voice  that  appeared  to 
come  from  the  lawn  before  the  house;  "do  you  tliink  you'll 
see  Teigue? — oh,  never!  as  long  as  you  live!  so  leave  alone 
looking  after  him,  and  mind  your  business;  there's  plenty 
of  company  to  dinner  from  Cork  to  be  here  to-day,  and 
'tis  time  you  had  the  cloth  laid." 

"Lord  bless  us!  there's  more  of  it! — I'll  never  stay 
another  day  here,"  repeated  John. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  and  stay  where  you  are  quietly, 


TEIGUE  OP  THE  LEE.  185 

and  play  no  tricks  on  Mr.  Pratt,  as  you  did  on  Mr.  Jervois 
about  the  spoons." 

John  Sheehan  was  confounded  by  this  address  from  his 
invisible  persecutor,  but  nevertheless  he  mustered  courage 
enough  to  say — "Who  are  you? — come  here,  and  let  me 
see  you,  if  you  are  a  man;"  but  he  received  in  reply  only 
a  laugh  of  unearthly  derision,  which  was  followed  by  a 
*' Good-bye — I'll  watch  you  at  dinner,  John!" 

"Lord  between  us  and  harm!  this  beats  all! — I'll  watch 
you  at  dinner! — may  be  you  will; — 'tis  the  broad  day- 
light, so  'tis  no  ghost;  but  this  is  a  terrible  place,  and  this 
is  the  last  day  I'll  stay  in  it.  How  does  he  know  about 
the  spoons? — if  he  tells  it,  I'm  a  ruined  man! — there  was 
no  living  soul  could  tell  it  to  him  but  Tim  Barrett,  and 
he's  far  enough  off  in  the  wilds  of  Botany  Bay  now,  so 
how  could  he  know  it — I  can't  tell  for  the  world!  But 
what's  that  I  see  there  at  the  corner  of  the  wall? — 'tis 
not  a  man! — oh,  what  a  fool  I  am!  'tis  only  the  old  stump 
of  a  tree! — But  this  is  a  shocking  place — I'll  never  stop  in 
it,  for  I'll  leave  the  house  to-morrow;  the  very  look  of  it 
is  enough  to  frighten  any  one." 

The  mansion  had  certainly  an  air  of  desolation;  it  was 
situated  in  a  lawn,  which  had  nothing  to  break  its  uniform 
level,  safe  a  few  tufts  of  narcissuses  and  a  couple  of  old 
trees  coeval  with  the  building.  The  house  stood  at  a  short 
distance  from  the  road;  it  was  upwards  of  a  century  old, 
and  Time  was  doing  his  work  upon  it;  its  walls  were  wea- 
ther-stained in  all  colours,  its  roof  showed  various  white 
patches,  it  had  no  look  of  comfort;  all  was  dim  and  dingy 
without,  and  within  there  was  an  air  of  gloom,  of  departed 
and  departing  greatness,  which  harmonized  well  with* the 
exterior.  It  required  all  the  exuberance  of  youth  and  of 
guiety  to  remove  the  impression,  almost  amounting  to  awe, 
with  which  you  trod  the  huge  square  hall,  paced  along  the 
gallery  which  surrounded  the  hall,  or  explored  the  long 
rambling  passages  below  stairs.  The  ball-room,  as  the 
large  drawing-room  was  called,  and  several  other  apart- 
ments, were  in  a  state  of  decay:  the  walls  were  stained 
with  damp;  and  I  remember  well  the  sensation  of  awe 
which  I  felt  creeping  over  me  when,  boy  as  I  was,  and  full 
of  boyish  life,  and  wild  and  ardent  spirits,  I  descended  to 

16* 


186  TEIGUE  or  THE  LEE. 

the  vaults;  all  without  anrl  within  me  hecame  chilled  he- 
neath  their  dampness  and  ji;Ioom — their  extent,  too,  terri- 
fied me;  nor  could  the  merriment  of  my  two  schoolfellows, 
whose  father,  a  respectahle  clergyman,  rented  the  dwelling 
for  a  time,  dispel  the  feeling;s  of  a  romantic  ijriaginalion, 
until  I  once  at^.un  a.-cended  to  the  upper  regions. 

John  had  pretty  well  recovered  himself  as  the  dinner- 
hour  approached,  and  the  several  guests  arrived.  They 
were  all  seated  at  tahle,  and  had  hegun  to  enjoy  the  excel- 
lent repast,  when  a  voice  was  heard  from  the  lawn: — 

"Ho,  ho,  ho,  Mr.  Pratt,  won't  you  give  poor  Teigue  some 
dinner?  ho,  ho,  a  fine  company  you  have  there,  an<l  plenty 
of  everv  thmg  that's  good;  sure  you  won't  forget  poor 
Teigue?" 

John  dropped  the  ijlass  he  had  in  his  hand. 

*•  Who  is  that?"  said  Mr.  Pratt's  brother,  an  officer  of 
the  artillery. 

"  That  is  Teigue,"  said  Mr.  Pratt,  laugh.ing,  <*  whom  you 
must  often  have  heard  me  mention." 

*'And  pray,  Mr.  Pratt,"  inquired  another  gentleman, 
"  who  is  'IVigue?" 

"That,"  he  replied,  "is  more  than  I  can  tell.  No  one 
has  ever  been  able  to  catch  even  a  glimpse  of  him.  1  have 
been  on  the  watch  for  a  whole  evening  with  three  of  my 
sons,  3'et,  although  his  voice  sometimes  sounded  almost  in 
my  ear,  I  could  not  see  him.  I  fancied,  indeed,  that  1  saw 
a  man  in  a  white  frieze  jacket  pass  into  the  door  from  the 
garden  to  the  lawn,  but  it  could  be  onl}^  fancy,  for  1  found 
the  door  locked,  while  the  fellow  whoever  he  is,  was 
laughing  at  our  trouble.  He  visits  us  occasionally,  and 
sometimes  a  long  interval  passes  between  his  visits,  as  in 
the  present  case;  it  is  now  nearly  two  years  since  we  heard 
that  hollow  voice  outside  the  window.  He  has  never  done 
any  injury  that  we  know  of,  and  once  when  he  broke  a 
plate,  he  brought  one  back  exactly  like  it." 

"  It  is  very  extraordinary,"  said  several  of  the  company. 

"But,"  remarked  a  gentleman  to  young  Mr.  Pratt, 
"your  father  said  he  broke  a  plate;  how  did  he  get  it 
without  your  seeing  him?" 

"  When  he  asks  for  some  dinner,  we  put  it  outside  the 
window  and  go  away;  whilst  we  watch  he  will  not  take  it, 
but  no  sooner  have  we  withdrawn,  than  it  is  gone." 


TEIGUE  OP  THE  LEE.  187 

"How  does  he  know  that  you  are  watching;?" 

"That's  more  than  I  can  tell,  but  he  either  knows  or 
suspects.  One  day  my  brothers  Robert  and  James  with 
myself  were  in  our  back  parlour,  which  has  a  window  into 
the  garden,  when  he  came  outside  and  said,  *  Ho,  ho,  ho! 
master  Jatnes,  and  Robert,  and  Henr}^  p;ive  poor  Teijjiue  a 
glass  of  whisky.'  James  went  out  of  the  room,  filled  a 
glass  with  whisky,  vinegar,  and  salt,  and  brought  it  to  him. 
*  Here  Teigue,'  said  he,  'come  for  it  now.'  *  Well,  put  it 
down,  then,  on  the  step  outside  the  window.'  This  was 
done,  and  we  stood  looking  at  it.  <  There,  now,  go  away,* 
lie  shouted.  We  retired,  but  still  watched  it.  *Ho,  ho! 
you  are  watching  Teigue;  go  out  of  the  room,  now,  or  I 
won't  take  it.'  We  went  outside  the  door  and  returned; 
the  glass  was  gone,  and  a  moment  after  we  heard  him 
roaring  and  cursing  frightfully.  He  took  away  the  glass, 
but  the  next  day  the  glass  was  on  the  stone  step  under  the 
window,  and  there  were  crumbs  of  bread  in  the  inside,  as 
if  he  had  put  it  in  his  pocket;  from  that  time  he  was  not 
heard  till  to-day." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  colonel,  "I'll  get  a  sight  of  him;  you  are 
not  used  to  these  things;  an  old  soldier  has  the  best  chance; 
and  as  I  shall  finish  my  dinner  with  this  wing,  I'll  be  ready 
for  him  when  he  s])eaks  next. — Mr.  Bell,  will  you  take  a 
glass  of  wine  with  me?" 

"Ho,  ho!  Mr.  Bell,"  shouted  Teigue.  "Ho,  ho!  Mr. 
Bell,  you  were  a  quaker  long  ago.  Ho,  ho!  Mr.  Bell, 
you're  a  pretty  boy; — a  pretty  quaker  you  were;  and  now 
you're  no  quaker,  nor  any  thing  else: — ho,  ho!  Mr.  Bell. 
And  there's  Mr.  Parkes:  to  be  sure,  Mr.  Parkes  looks 
mighty  fine  to-day,  with  his  powdered  head,  and  his  grand 
silk  stockings,  and  his  bran  new  rakish-red  waistcoat. — 
And  there's  Mr.  Cole, — did  you  ever  see  such  a  fellou?  a 
pretty  company  you've  brought  together,  Mr.  Pratt:  kiln- 
dried  quakers,  butter-bujnng  buckeens  from  Mallow-lane, 
and  a  drinking  exciseman  from  the  Coal-quay,  to  meet  the 
great  thundering  artillery-general  that  is  come  out  of  the 
Indies,  and  is  the  biggest  dust  of  them  all." 

"You  scoundrel!"  exclaimed  the  colonel:  "I'll  mako 
you  show  yourself;"  and  snatching  up  his  sword  from  a 
eorner  of  the  room,  he  sprang  out  of  the  window  upon  the 


188  TEIGUE  OF  THE  LEE. 

lawn.  In  a  moment  a  shout  of  laughter,  so  hollow,  so  un- 
like any  human  sound,  made  him  stop,  as  well  as  Mr.  Bell, 
who  with  a  huge  oak  stick  was  close  at  the  colonel's  heels; 
others  of  the  party  followed  on  the  lawn,  and  the  remainder 
rose  and  went  to  the  windows.  "  Come  on,  colonel,"  said 
Mr.  Bell;  "let  us  catch  this  impudent  rascal." 

"Ho,  ho!  Mr.  Bell,  here  I  am — here's  Teigue — why 
don't  you  catch  him? — Ho,  ho!  Colonel  Pratt,  what  a 
pretty  soldier  you  are  to  draw  your  sword  upon  poor 
Teigue,  that  never  did  any  body  harm." 

"  Let  us  see  your  face,  you  scoundrel,'*  said  the  colonel. 

"  Ho,  ho,  ho! — look  at  me — look  at  me:  do  you  see  the 
wind,  colonel  Pratt? — you'll  see  Teigue  as  soon;  so  go  in 
and  finish  your  dinner." 

"If  you're  upon  the  earth  I'll  find  you,  you  villain!" 
said  the  colonel,  whilst  the  same  unearthly  shout  of  deri- 
sion seemed  to  come  from  behind  an  angle  of  the  building. 
"He's  round  that  corner,"  said  Mr.  Bell — "run,  run." 

They  followed  the  sound,  which  was  continued  at  inter- 
vals along  the  garden  wall,  but  could  discover  no  human 
being;  at  last  both  stopped  to  draw  breath,  and  in  an  in- 
stant, almost  at  their  ears,  sounded  the  shout. 

"Ho,  ho,  ho!  colonel  Pratt,  do  you  see  Teigue  now? — 
do  you  hear  him? — Ho,  ho,  ho!  you're  a  fine  colonel  to 
follow  the  wind." 

"  Not  that  way,  Mr.  Bell — not  that  way;  come  here," 
said  the  colonel. 

"Ho,  ho,  ho!  what  a  fool  you  are;  do  you  think  Teigue 
is  going  to  show  himself  to  you  in  the  field,  there?  But 
colonel,  follow  me  if  you  can: — you  a  soldier! — ho,  ho, 
ho!"  The  colonel  was  enraged — he  followed  the  voice 
over  hedge  and  ditch,  alternately  laughed  at  and  taunted 
by  the  unseen  object  of  his  pursuit — (Mr.  Bell,  who  was 
heavy,  was  soon  thrown  out,)  until  at  length,  after  being  led 
a  weary  chase,  he  found  himself  at  the  top  of  the  cliff,  over 
that  part  of  the  river  Lee,  which  from  its  great  depth,  and 
the  blackness  of  its  water,  has  received  the  name  of  Hell- 
hole. Here,  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  stood  the  colonel  out 
of  breath,  and  mopping  his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief, 
while  the  voice,  which  seemed  close  at  his  feet,  exclaimed — 
"  Now,  colonel  Pratt — now,  if  you're  a  soldier,  here's  a  leap 


TEIGUE  OP  THE  LEE.  189 

for  you; — now  look  at  Teigue — why  don't  you  look  at 
him? — Ho,  ho,  ho!  Come  along:  you're  warm,  I'm  sure, 
colonel  Pratt,  so  come  in  and  cool  yourself;  Teigue  is  ^o- 
ing  to  have  a  swim!"  The  voice  seemed  as  descending 
amongst  the  trailing  ivy  and  brushwood  which  clothes  this 
picturesque  cliff  nearly  from  top  to  bottom,  yet  it  was  im- 
possible that  any  human  being  could  have  found  footing. 
"Now,  colonel,  have  you  courage  to  take  the  leap? — Ho, 
ho,  ho!  what  a  pretty  soldier  you  are.  Good-bye — Pll 
see  you  again  in  ten  minutes  above,  at  the  house — look  at 
your  watch,  colonel: — there's  a  dive  for  you  !"  and  a  heavy 
plunge  into  the  water  was  heard.  The  colonel  stood  still, 
but  no  sound  followed,  and  he  walked  slowly  back  to  the 
house,  not  quite  half  a  mile  from  the  Crag. 

"  Well,  did  you  see  Teigue?"  said  his  brother,  whilst 
his  nephews,  scarcely  able  to  smother  their  laughter,  stood 
by. — <'Give  me  some  wine,"  said  the  colonel.  "I  never 
was  led  such  a  dance  in  my  life:  the  fellow  carried  me  all 
round  and  round,  till  he  brought  me  to  the  edge  of  the 
cliff,  and  then  down  he  went  into  Hell-hole,  telling  me 
he'd  be  here  in  ten  minutes:  'tis  more  than  that  now,  but 
he's  not  come." 

"  Ho,  ho,  ho!  colonel,  isn't  he  here? — Teigue  never  told 
a  lie  in  his  life:  but,  Mr.  Pratt,  give  me  a  drink  and  my 
dinner,  and  then  good  night  to  you  all,  for  I'm  tired;  and 
that's  the  colonel's  doing."  A  plate  of  food  was  ordered: 
it  was  placed  by  John,  with  fear  and  trembling,  on  the 
lawn  under  the  window.  Every  one  kept  on  the  walch, 
and  the  plate  remained  undisturbed  for  some  time. 

"Ah!  Mr.  Pratt,  will  you  starve  poor  Teigue?  Make 
every  one  go  away  from  the  windows,  and  master  Henry 
out  of  the  tree,  and  master  Richard  off  the  garden-wall." 

The  eyes  of  the  company  were  turned  to  the  tree  and 
the  garden-wall;  the  two  boys'  attention  was  occupied  in 
getting  down:  the  visiters  were  looking  at  them;  and  "Ho, 
ho,  ho! — good  luck  to  you,  Mr.  Pratt! — 'tis  a  good  dinner, 
and  there's  the  plate,  ladies  and  gentlemen — good-bye  to 
you,  colonel — good-bye,  Mr.  Bell! — good-bye  to  you  all!" 
— brought  their  attention  back,  when  they  saw  the  empty 
plate  lying  on  the  grass;  and  Teigue's  voice  was  heard  no 


190 


more  for  that  evening.  Many  visits  were  afterwards  paid 
by  Teiguej  but  never  was  he  seen,  nor  was  any  discovery 
ever  made  of  his  person  or  character. 


NED   SHEEHY'S   EXCUSE. 

XXXIl. 

Ned  Sheehy  was  servant-man  to  Richard  Gumbleton, 
Esquire,  of  Mountbally,  Gumbletonmore,  in  the  north  of 
the  county  of  Cork;  and  a  better  servant  than  Ned  was 
not  to  be  found  in  that  honest  county,  from  Cape  Clear  to 
the  Kilvvorth  Mountains;  for  nobody — no,  not  his  worst 
enemy — could  say  a  word  against  him,  only  that  he  was 
rather  given  to  drinking,  idling,  lying,  and  loitering,  espe- 
cially the  last;  for  send  Ned  of  a  five-minute  message  at 
nineo'clock  in  the  morning,  and  you  were  a  lucky  man  if 
you  saw  him.  before  dinner.  If  there  happened  to  be  a 
public-house  in  the  way,  or  even  a  little  out  of  it,  Ned  was 
sure  to  mark  it  as  dead  as  a  pointer;  and,  knowing  every 
body,  and  ever}^  body  liking  him,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at  he  had  so  much  to  say  and  to  hear,  that  the  time  slipped 
away  as  if  the  sun  somehow  or  other  had  knocked  two 
hours  into  one. 

But  when  he  came  home,  he  never  was  short  of  an  ex- 
cuse: he  had,  for  that  matter,  five  hundred  ready  upon  the 
tip  of  his  tongue;  so  much  so,  that  I  doubt  if  even  the  very 


191 

reverend  doctor  Swift,  for  many  years  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's, 
in  Dublin,  could  match  him  in  that  particular,  though  his 
reverence  had  a  pretty  way  of  his  own  of  writing  things 
which  brought  him  into  very  decent  company.  In  fact, 
Ned  would  fret  a  saint,  but  then  he  was  so  good-humoured 
a  fellow,  and  really  so  handy  about  a  house, — for,  as  he 
said  himself,  he  was  as  good  as  a  lady's  maid, — that  his 
master  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  part  with  him. 

In  your  grand  houses — not  that  I  am  saying  that  Richard 
Gumblelon,  esquire  of  Mountbally,  Gunibletonmore,  did 
not  keep  a  good  house,  but  a  plain  country  gentleman,  al- 
though he  is  second-cousin  to  the  last  high-sheriff  of  the 
county,  cannot  have  all  the  army  of  servants  that  the  lord- 
lieutenant  has  in  the  castle  of  Dublin — I  say,  in  your  grand 
houses,  you  can  have  a  servant  for  every  kind  of  thing, 
but  in  Mountbally,  Gumbletonmore,  Ned  was  expected  to 
please  master  and  mistress;  or,  as  counsellor  Curran  said, — 
by  the  same  token  the  counsellor  was  a  little  dark  man — 
one  day  that  he  dined  there,  on  his  way  to  the  Clonmel 
assizes — Ned  was  minister  for  the  home  and  foreign  de- 
partments. 

But  to  make  a  long  story  short,  Ned  Sheehy  was  a  good 
butler,  and  a  right  good  one  too,  and  as  for  a  groom,  let 
him  alone  with  a  horse:  he  could  dress  it,  or  ride  it,  or 
shoe  it,  or  physic  it,  or  do  any  thing  with  it  but  make  it 
speak — he  was  a  second  whisperer! — there  was  not  his 
match  in  the  barony,  or  the  next  one  neither.  A  pack  of 
hounds  he  could  manage  well,  ay,  and  ride  after  them  with 
the  boldest  man  in  the  land.  It  was  Ned  who  leaped  the 
old  bounds'  ditch  at  the  turn  of  the  boreen  of  the  lands 
of  Reenascreena,  after  the  English  captain  pulled  up  on 
looking  at  it,  and  cried  out  it  was  "  No  go."  Ned  rode 
that  day  Brian  Boro,  Mr.  Gumbleton's  famous  chestnut, 
and  people  call  it  Ned  Sheehy's  Leap  to  this  hour. 

So,  you  see,  it  was  hard  to  do  without  him:  however, 
many  a  scolding  he  got;  and  although  his  master  often 
said  of  an  evening,  "I'll  turn  off  Ned,"  he  always  forgot 
to  do  so  in  the  morning.  These  threats  mended  Ned  not 
a  bit;  indeed,  he  was  mending  the  other  way,  like  bad  fish 
in  hot  weather. 


192  NED  sheeht's  excuse. 

One  cold  winter's  ilay,  about  three  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, Mr.  Gumbleton  said  to  him, 

'•Ned,"  ynid  he,  "  jjo  take  Modderaroo  down  to  black 
Falvey,  the  horse-doctor,  and  bid  him  look  at  her  knees; 
for  Doctor  Jenkinson,  who  rode  her  home  last  night,  has 
hurt  her  somehow.  I  suppose  he  thought  a  parson's  horse 
ou;jlit  to  g;o  upon  its  knees;  but,  indeed,  it  was  1  was  the 
fool  to  give  her  to  him  at  all,  for  he  sits  twenty  stone  if 
he  sits  a  pound,  and  knows  no  more  of  riding,  particularly 
after  his  third  bottle,  than  I  do  of  preaching.  Now  mind 
and  be  back  iti  an  hour  at  farthest,  for  1  want  to  have  the 
plate  cleaned  up  properly  for  dinner,  as  Sir  Auaiustus 
O'Toole,  you  know,  is  to  dine  here  to-day. — Don't  loiter, 
for  your  life." 

"Is  it  I,  sir?"  says  Ned.  "  Well,  that  beats  any  thing; 
as  if  I'd  stop  out  a  minute!"  So,  mounting  Modderaroo, 
off  he  set. 

Four,  five,  six  o'clock  came,  and  so  did  Sir  Augustus 
and  lafly  OToole,  and  the  four  misses  O'Toole,  and  Mr. 
O'Toole,  and  Mr.  Edward  O'Toole,  and  Mr.  James 
O'Toole,  which  were  all  the  young  O'Tooles  that  were  at 
home,  but  no  Ned  Sheehy  appeared  to  clean  the  plate,  or  to 
lay  the  table-cloth,  or  even  to  put  dinner  on.  It  is  need- 
less to  say  how  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dick  Gumbleton  fretted  and 
fumed;  but  it  was  all  to  no  use.  They  did  their  best, 
however,  only  it  was  a  disgrace  to  see  long  Jem  the  stable- 
boy,  and  Bill  the  gossoon  that  used  to  go  of  errands,  wait- 
ing, without  any  body  to  direct  them,  when  there  was  a 
real  baronet  and  his  lad}^  at  table;  for  Sir  Augustus  was 
none  of  your  knights.  But  a  good  bottle  of  claret  makes 
up  for  much,  and  it  was  not  one  only  they  had  that  night. 
However,  it  is  not  to  be  concealed  that  Mr.  Dick  Gumble- 
ton went  to  bed  very  cross,  and  he  awoke  still  crosser. 

He  heard  that  Ned  had  not  made  his  appearance  for  the 
whole  night;  so  he  dressed  himself  in  a  great  fret,  and, 
taking  his  horsewhip  in  his  hand,  he  said, 

"There  is  no  farther  use  in  tolerating  this  scoundrel; 
I'll  go  look  for  him,  and  if  I  find  him,  I'll  cut  the  soul 
out  of  his  vagabond  body!  so  I  will." 

"Don't  say  so,  Dick,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Gumbleton  (for 
she  was  always  a  mild  woman,  being  daughter  of  fighting 


193 

Tom  Crofts,  who  shot  a  couple  of  gentlemen,  friends  of 
his,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  after  the  Mallow  races,  one 
after  the  other,)  "  don't  swear,  Dick,  dear,"  said  she;  "  but 
do,  my  dear,  oblige  me  by  cutting  the  flesh  off  his  bones, 
for  he  richly  deserves  it.  I  was  quite  ashamed  of  Lady 
O'Toole,  yesterday,  I  was,  'pon  honour.'^ 

Out  sallied  Mr.  Gumbleton;  and  he  had  not  far  to  walk, 
for,  not  more  than  two  hundred  yards  from  tlie  house,  he 
found  Ned  lying  fast  asleep  under  a  ditch  (a  hedge,)  and 
Modderaroo  standing  by  him,  poor  beast,  shaking  every 
limb.  The  loud  snoring  of  Ned,  who  was  lying  with  his 
head  upon  a  stone  as  easy  and  as  comfortable  as  if  it  had 
been  a  bed  of  down  or  a  hop-bag,  drew  him  to  the  spot, 
and  Mr.  Gumbleton  at  once  perceived,  from  the  disarray 
of  Ned's  face  and  person,  that  he  had  been  engaged  in 
some  perilous  adventure  during  the  night.  Ned  appeared 
not  to  have  descended  in  the  most  regular  manner;  for  one 
of  his  shoes  remained  sticking  in  the  stirrup,  and  his  hat, 
having  rolled  down  a  little  slope,  was  imbedded  in  green 
mud.  Mr.  Gumbleton,  however,  did  not  give  himself 
much  trouble  to  make  a  curious  survey,  but  with  a  vio-orous 
application  of  his  thong,  soon  banished  sleep  from  the  eyes 
of  Ned  Sheehy. 

"  Ned!"  thundered   his  master   in  great  indignation, 

and  on  this  occasion  it  was  not  a  word  and  blow,  for  with 
that  one  word  came  half  a  dozen:  "Get  up,  you  scoundrel," 
said  he. 

Ned  roared  lustily,  and  no  wonder,  for  his  master's  hand 
was   not  one  of  the   lightest;  and    he   cried  out,  between 

sleeping  and   waking — "  0,  sir! — don't   be   angry,  sir! 

don't  be  angry,  and'  I'll  roast  you  easier — easy  as  a 
lamb!" 

"Roast  me  easier,  you  vagabond!"  said  Mr.  Gumbleton; 
"what   do   you  mean?— I'll  roast  you,   my  lad.     Where 

were  you  all  night? — Modderaroo  will  never  get  over  it. 

Pack  out  of  my  service,  you  worthless  villain,  this  mo- 
ment; and,  indeed,  you  may  be  thankful  that  I  don't  get 
you  transported." 

"Thank  God,  master   dear,"  said  Ned,  who  was   now 
perfectly  awakened—"  it's  yourself,  any  how.    There  never 
was  a  gentleman  in  the  whole  country  ever  did  so  good  a 
17 


194 

turn  to  a  poor  man  as  your  honour  has  been  after  doing  to 
me:  the  Lord  reward  you  for  that  same.  Oh!  but  strike 
me  again,  and  let  me  feel  that  it  is  yourself,  master  dear; — 
may  whisky  be  my  poison — " 

"  It  will  be  your  poison,  you  good-for-nothing  scoun- 
drel," said  Mr.  Gumbleton. 

"Well,  then,  ma?/  whiskey  be  my  poison,"  said  Ned, 
"  if  'twas  not  I  was — in  the  blackest  of  misfortunes,  and 
they  were  before  me,  whichever  way  I  turned  ^twas  no 
matter.  Your  honour  sent  me  last  night,  sure  enough, 
with  Modderaroo  to  mister  Falvey's — 1  don't  deny  it — 
why  should  I?  for  reason  enough  I  have  to  remember 
what  happened." 

"Ned,  my  man,"  said  Mr.  Gumbleton,  "  I'll  listen  to 
none  of  your  excuses:  just  take  the  mare  into  the  stable 
and  yourself  off,  for  I  vow — " 

"Begging  your  honour's  pardon,"  said  Ned,  earnestly, 
"for  interrupting  your  honour;  but,  master,  master!  make 
no  vows — they  are  bad  things:  I  never  made  but  one  in 
all  my  life,  which  was,  to  drink  nothing  at  all  for  a  year 
and  a  day,  and  'tis  myself  repinted  of  it  for  the  clean 
twelvemonth  after.  But  if  your  honour  would  only  listen 
to  reason:  I'll  just  take  in  the  poor  baste,  and  if  your  ho- 
nour don't  pardon  me  this  one  time  may  I  never  see  ano- 
ther day's  luck  or  grace." 

"I  know  you,  Ned,"  said  Mr.  Gumbleton.  "Whatever 
your  luck  has  been,  you  never  had  any  grace  to  lose:  but 
I  don't  intend  discussing  the  matter  with  you.  Take  in 
the  mare,  sir." 

Ned  obeyed,  and  his  master  saw  him  to  the  stables. 
Here  he  reiterated  his  commands  to  quit,  and  Ned  Sheehy's 
excuse  for  himself  began.  That  it  was  heard  uninterrupt- 
edly is  more  than  I  can  affirm;  but  as  interruptions,  like 
explanations,  spoil  a  story,  we  must  let  Ned  tell  it  his  own 
way. 

"  No  wonder  your  honour,'^  said  he,  "  should  be  a  bit 
angry — grand  company  coming  to  the  house  and  all,  and 
no  regular  serving-man  to  wait,  only  long  Jem;  so  1  don't 
blame  your  honour  the  least  for  being  fretted  like;  but 
when  all's  heard,  you  will  see  that  no  poor  man  is  more 
to  be  pitied  for  last  night  than  myself.     Fin  Mac  Coul 


NED  sheehy's  excuse.  195 

never  went  through  more  in  his  born  days  than  I  did, 
though  he  was  a  great  joini  (giant,)  and  I  only  a  man. 

"I  had  not  rode  half  a  mile  from  the  house,  when  it 
came  on,  as  your  honour  must  have  perceived  clearly, 
mighty  dark  all  of  a  sudden,  for  all  the  world  as  if  the 
sun  had  tumbled  down  plump  out  of  the  fine  clear  blue 
sky.  It  was  not  so  late,  being  only  four  o'clock  at  the 
most,  but  it  was  as  black  as  your  honour's  hat.  Well,  I 
didn't  care  much,  seeing  I  knew  the  road  as  well  as  I  knew 
the  way  to  my  mouth,  whether  I  saw  it  or  not,  and  I  put 
the  mare  into  a  smart  canter;  but  just  as  1  turned  down 
by  the  corner  of  Terence  Leahy's  field — sure  your  honour 
ought  to  know  the  place  well — just  at  the  very  spot  the 
fox  was  killed  when  your  honour  came  in  first  out  of  a 
whole  field  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  gentlemen,  and  may  be 
more,  all  of  them  brave  riders." 

(Mr.  Gumbleton  smiled.) 

"Just  then,  there,  I  heard  the  low  cry  of  the  good  peo- 
ple wafting  upon  the  wind.  'How  early  you  are  at  your 
work,  my  little  fellows!'  says  I  to  myself;  and,  dark  as  it 
was,  having  no  wish  for  such  company,  I  thought  it  best 
to  get  out  of  their  way;  so  I  turned  the  horse  a  little  up 
to  the  left,  thinking  to  get  down  by  the  boreen,  that  is 
that  way,  and  so  round  to  Falvey's;  but  there  1  heard  the 
voice  plainer  and  plainer  close  behind,  and  I  could  hear 
these  words: — 

'Ned!  Ned!' 
By  my  cap  so  red! 
You're  as  good,  Ned, 
As  a  man  that  is  dead.' 

^A  clean  pair  of  spurs  is  all  that's  for  it  now,'  said  I;  so 
off  I  set,  as  hard  as  I  could  lick,  and  in  my  hurry  knew 
no  more  where  I  was  going  than  I  do  the  road  to  the  hill 
of  Tarah.  Away  I  galloped  on  for  some  time,  until  I 
came  to  the  noise  of  a  stream,  roaring  away  by  itself  in 
the  darkness.  '  What  river  is  this?'  said  I  to  myself — 
for  there  was  nobody  else  to  ask — '  I  thought,'  says  I, 
*I  knew  every  inch  of  ground,  and  of  water  too,  within 
twenty  miles,  and  never  the  river  surely  is  there  in  this 
direction.'     So  I  stopped  to  look  about;  but  I  might  have 


196 

spared  myself  that  trouble,  for  I  could  not  see  as  much  as 
my  hand.  I  didn't  know  what  to  do;  but  1  thought  in 
myself,  it's  a  queer  river,  surely,  if  somebody  does  not 
live  near  it;  and  1  shouted  out  as  loud  as  I  could,  Murder! 
murder! — fire! — robbery! — anything  that  would  be  na- 
tural in  such  a  place — but  not  a  sound  did  I  hear  except 
my  own  voice  echoed  back  to  me,  like  a  hundred  packs 
of  hounds  in  full  cry  above  and  below,  right  and  left.  This 
didn't  do  at  all;  so  1  dismounted,  and  guided  myself  along 
the  stream,  directed  by  the  noise  of  the  water,  as  cautious 
as  if  1  was  treading  upon  eggs,  holding  poor  Modderaroo 
by  the  bridle,  who  shook,  the  poor  brute,  all  over  in  a 
tremble,  like  my  old  grandmother,  rest  her  soul  any  how! 
in  the  ague.  Well,  sir,  the  heart  was  sinking  in  me,  and 
I  was  giving  myself  up,  when,  as  good  luck  would  have 
it,  1  saw  a  light.  ^  May  be,'  said  I,  'my  good  fellow,  you 
are  only  a  jacky  lantern,  and  want  to  bog  me  and  Modde- 
raroo.^ But  I  looked  at  the  light  hard,  and  I  thought  it 
was  too  study  (steady)  for  a  jacky  lantern.  ^  I'll  try  you/ 
says  I — 'so  here  goes;  and,  walking  as  quick  as  a  thief,  I 
came  towards  it,  being  very  near  plumping  into  the  river 
once  or  twice,  and  being  stuck  up  to  my  middle,  as  your 
honour  may  perceive  cleanly  the  marks  of,  two  or  three 
times  in  the  slob."^  At  last  I  made  the  light  out,  and  it 
coming  from  a  bit  of  a  house  by  the  road-side;  so  I  went 
to  the  door  and  gave  three  kicks  at  it,  as  strong  as  I 
could. 

"'Open  the  door  for  Ned  Sheehy,'  said  a  voice  inside. 
Now,  besides  that  I  could  not,  for  the  life  of  me,  make  out- 
how  anyone  inside  should  know  me  before  I  spoke  a  word 
at  all,  I  did  not  like  the  sound  of  that  voice,  'twas  so  hoarse 
and  so  hollow,  just  like  a  dead  man's! — so  I  said  nothing 
immediately.  The  same  voice  spoke  again,  and  said, 
'Why  don't  you  open  the  door  to  Ned  Sheehy?'  'How 
pat  my  nanie  is  to  you,'  said  I,  without  speaking  out,  'on 
tip  of  your  tongue,  like  butter;'  and  I  was  between  two 
minds  about  staying  or  going,  when  what  should  the  door 
do  but  open,  and  out  came  a  man  holding  a  candle  in  his 
hand,  and  he  had  upon  him  a  face  as  white  as  a  sheet. 

*  Or  slaib;  mire  on  the  sea  strand  or  river's  bank. — O'Brien. 


NED  sheehy's  excuse.      -  197 

m  Why,  then,  Ned  Sheehy,'  says  he/ how  grand  you're 
grown,  that  you  won't  come  in  and  see  a  friend,  as  you're 
passing  by?' 

"*Pray,  sir,'  says  I,  looking  at  him — though  that  face  of 
his  was  enough  to  dumbfounder  any  honest  man  like  my- 
self— '  Pray,  sir,'  says  I,  '  may  I  make  so  bold  as  to  ask  if 
you  are  not  Jack  Myers  that  was  drowned  seven  years  ago, 
next  Martinmas,  in  the  ford  of  Ah-na-fourish?' 

"'Suppose  I  was,'  says  he:  Mias  not  a  man  a  right  to 
be  drowned  in  the  ford  facing  his  own  cabin-door  any 
day  of  the  week  that  he  likes,  from  Sunday  morning  to 
Saturday  night?' 

"'I'm  not  denying  that  same,  Mr.  Myers,  sir,'  says  I, 
*  if  'tis  yourself  is  to  the  fore  speaking  to  me.' 

"'Well,' says  he,  '  no  more  words  about  that  matter 
now:  sure  you  and  I,  Ned,  were  friends  of  old;  come  in, 
and  take  a  glass;  and  here's  a  good  fire  before  you,  and 
nobody  shall  hurt  or  harm  you,  and  I  to  the  fore,  and  my- 
self able  to  do  it' 

"Now,  your  honour,  though  'twas  much  to  drink  with 
a  man  that  was  drowned  seven  years  before,  in  the  ford  of 
Ah-na-fourish,  facing  his  own  door,  yet  the  glass  was  hard 
to  be  withstood — to  say  nothing  of  the  fire  that  was  blazing 
within — for  the  night  was  mortal  cold.  So  tying  Modde- 
raroo  to  the  hasp  of  the  door — if  I  don't  love  the  creature 
as  I  love  my  own  life — I  went  in  with  Jack  Myers. 

"  Civil  enough  he  was — I'll  never  say  otherwise  to  mj^ 
dying  hour — for  he  handed  me  a  stool  by  the  fire,  and  bid 
me  sit  down  and  make  myself  comfortable.  But  his  face, 
as  1  said  before,  was  as  white  as  the  snow  on  the  hills,  and 
his  two  eyes  fell  dead  on  me,  like  the  eyes  of  a  cod  with- 
out any  life  in  them.  Just  as  I  was  going  to  put  the  glass 
to  my  lips,  a  voice — 'twas  the  same  that  1  heard  bidding 
the  door  be  opened — spoke  out  of  a  cupboard  that  was  con- 
venient to  the  left-hand  side  of  the  chimney,  and  said, 
'Have  you  any  news  for  me,  Ned  Sheehy?' 

"'The  never  a  word,  sir,'  says  I,  making  answer  before 
I  tasted  the  whisky,  all  out  of  civility;  and,  to  speak  the 
truth,  never  the  least  could  I  remember  at  that  moment  of 
what  had  happened  to  me,  or  how  I  got  there;  for  I  was 
quite  bothered  with  the  fright. 

17* 


19S  NED  SHEEHY^S  EXCUSE. 

"'Have  you  no  news,'  says  the  voice,  'Ned,  to  tell 
me,  froQi  Mountbally  Gumbletonmore;  or  from  the  Mill; 
or  about  Moll  Trantum  that  was  married  last  week  to 
Bryan  Oge,  and  you  at  the  wedding? 

'"No,  sir,'  says  I,  'never  the  word.' 

"'What  brought  you  in  here,  Ned,  then?'  says  the 
voice.  I  could  say  nothing;  for,  whatever  other  people 
might  do,  1  never  could  frame  an  excuse;  and  I  was  loath 
to  say  it  was  on  account  of  the  glass  and  the  fire,  for  that 
would  be  to  speak  the  truth. 

'"Turn  the  scoundrel  out,'  says  the  voice;  and  at  the 
sound  of  it,  who  would  I  see  but  Jack  Myers  making  over 
to  me  with  a  lump  of  a  stick  in  his  hand,  and  it  clenched 
on  the  stick  so  wicked.  For  certain,  I  did  not  stop  to  feel 
the  weight  of  the  blow;  so,  dropping  the  glass,  and  it  full 
of  the  stuff  loo,  I  bolted  out  of  the  door,  and  never  rested 
from  running  away,  for  as  good,  I  believe,  as  twenty  miles, 
till  I  found  myself  in  a  big  wood. 

"'The  Lord  preserve  me!  what  will  become  of  me 
now!'  says  I.  *  Oh,  Ned  Sheehy!'  says  I,  speaking  to  my- 
self, '  my  man,  you're  in  a  pretty  hobble;  and  to  leave 
poor  Modderaroo  after  you!'  But  the  words  were  not  well 
out  of  my  mouth,  when  1  heard  the  dismallest  ullagoane 
in  the  world,  enough  to  break  any  one's  heart  that  was  not 
broke  before,  with  the  grief  entirely,  and  it  was  not  long 
till  I  could  plainly  see  four  men  coming  towards  me,  with 
a  great  black  coffin  on  their  shoulders.  '  I'd  better  get  up 
in  a  tree,'  says  I,  'for  they  say  'tis  not  lucky  to  meet  a 
corpse:  I'm  in  the  way  of  misfortune  to-night,  if  ever 
man  was.' 

"I  could  not  help  wondering  how  a  berrin  (funeral) 
should  come  there  in  the  lone  wood  at  that  time  of  night, 
seeing  it  could  not  be  far  from  the  dead  hour.  But  it  was 
little  good  for  me  thinking,  for  they  soon  came  imder  the 
very  tree  I  was  roosting  in,  and  down  they  put  the  coffin, 
and  began  to  make  a  fine  fire  under  me.  I'll  be  smothered 
alive  now,  thinks  I,  and  that  will  be  the  end  of  me;  but 
1  was  afraid  to  stir  for  the  life,  or  to  speak  out  to  bid  them 
just  make  their  fire  under  some  other  tree,  if  it  would  be 
all   the  same  thing  to  them.     Presently  they  opened  the 


NED  SHEEHY's  excuse.  199 

coffin,  and  out  they  dragged  as  fine-looking  a  man  as  you'd 
meet  with  in  a  day's  walk. 

"^Where's  the  spit?'  says  one. 

"'Here  'tis,'  says  another,  handing  it  over;  and  for 
certain  they  spitted  him,  and  began  to  turn  him  before  the 
fire. 

''If  they  are  not  going  to  eat  him,  thinks  I,  like  the 
Hannibals  father  Quinlan  told  us  about  in  his  sarmint  last 
Sunday. 

" '  Who'll  turn  the  spit  while  we  go  for  the  other  ingre- 
dients?' says  one  of  them  that  brought  the  coffin,  and  a  big 
ugly-looking  blackguard  he  was. 

"  '  Who'd  turn  the  spit  but  Ned  Sheehy?'  says  another. 

"Burn  you!  thinks  I,  how  should  you  know  that  I  was 
here  so  handy  to  you  up  in  ihe  tree? 

"'Come  down,  Ned  Sheehy,  and  turn  the  spit,'  says  he. 

"'  I'm  not  here  at  all,  sir,'  says  I,  putting  my  hand  over 
my  face  that  he  might  not  see  me. 

"'That  won't  do  for  you,  my  man,' says  he;  'you'd 
better  come  down,  or  may  be  I'd  make  you.' 

'"I'm  coming,  sir,'  says  I;  for 'tis  always  right  to  make 
a  virtue  of  necessity.  So  down  I  came,  and  there  they 
left  me  turning  the  spit  in  the  middle  of  the  wide  wood. 

" '  Don't  scorch  me,  Ned  Sheehy,  you  vagabond,'  says 
the  man  on  the  spit. 

'"And  my  lord,  sir,  and  ar'n't  you  dead,  sir,'  says  I, 
<and  your  honour  taken  out  of  the  coffin  and  all?' 

'"I  ar'n't,'  says  he. 

'"But  surely  you  are,  sir,'  says  I, '  for  'tis  to  no  use  now 
for  me  denying  that  I  saw  your  honour,  and  1  up  in  the 
tree.' 

"  '1  ar'n't,'  says  he  again,  speaking  quite  short  and  snap- 
pish. 

"So  I  said  no  more,  until  presently  he  called  out  to  me 
to  turn  him  easy,  or  that  may  be  'twould  be  the  worse  turn 
for  myself. 

"'Will  that  do,  sir?' says  I,  turning  him  as  easy  as  I 
could. 

'"That's  too  easy,'  says  he:  so  I  turned  him  faster. 
'"That's  too  fast,'  says  he;  so  finding  that,  turn  him 
which  way  I  would,  I  could  not  please  him,  I  got  into  a 


200  NED  sheehy's  excuse. 

bit  of  a  fret  at  last,  and  desired  him  to  turn  himself,  for  a 
grumbling  spalpeen  as  he  was,  if  he  liked  it  better. 

"Away  I  ran,  and  away  he  came  hopping,  spit  and  all, 
after  me,  and  he  but  half-roasted.  *  Murder!'  says  I, 
shouting  out;  *l'm  done  for  at  long  last — now  or  never!' — 
when  all  of  a  sudden,  and  'twas  really  wonderful,  not 
knowing  where  I  was  rightly,  I  found  myself  at  the  door 
of  the  very  little  cabin  by  the  road-side  that  I  had  bolted 
out  of  from  Jack  Myers;  and  there  was  Modderaroo  stand- 
ing hard  by. 

"'Open  the  door  for  Ned  Sheehy,'  says  the  voice, — for 
^twas  shut  against  me, — and  the  door  flew  open  in  an  instant. 
In  I  ran  without  stop  or  stay,  thinking  it  better  to  be  beat 
by  Jack  Myers,  he  being  an  old  friend  of  mine,  than  to  be 
spitted  like  a  Michaelmas  goose  by  a  man  that  I  knew 
nothing  about,  either  of  him  or  his  family,  one  or  the  other. 

"'Have  you  any  news  for  me?'  says  the  voice,  putting 
just  tlie  same  question  to  me  that  it  did  before. 

"'Yes,  sir,'  says  I,  'and  plenty.'  So  I  mentioned  all 
that  had  happened  to  me  in  the  big  wood,  and  how  I  got 
up  in  the  tree,  and  how  1  was  made  come  down  again,  and 
put  to  turning  the  spit,  roasting  the  gentleman,  and  how  1 
could  not  please  him,  turn  him  fast  or  easy,  although  1  tried 
my  best,  and  how  he  ran  after  me  at  last,  spit  and  all. 

'"If  you  had  told  me  this  before,  you  would  not  have 
been  turned  out  in  the  cold,'  said  the  voice. 

"'And  how  could  I  tell  it  to  you,  sir,'  says  I,  'before  it 
happened?' 

"  'No  matter,'  says  he,  'you  may  sleep  now  till  morning 
on  that  bundle  of  hay  in  the  corner  there,  and  only  I  was 
your  friend,  you'd  have  been  kilt  entirely.'  So  down  I 
lay,  but  I  was  dreaming,  dreaming  all  the  rest  of  the  night; 
and  when  you,  master  dear,  woke  me  with  that  blessed 
blow,  I  thought  'twas  the  man  on  the  spit  had  hold  of  me, 
and  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes,  when  1  found  myself  in 
your  honour's  presence,  and  poor  Modderaroo  safe  and 
sound  by  my  side;  but  how  I  came  there  is  more  than  I 
can  say,  if  'twas  not  Jack  Myers,  although  he  did  make  the 
offer  to  strike  me,  or  some  one  among  the  good  people  that 
befriended  me." 

"'It  is  all  a  drunken  dream,  you  scoundrel,"  said  Mr. 
Gumbleton;  "  have  I  not  had  fifty  such  excuses  from  you?" 


NED  SHEEHY's  excuse.  201 

"  But  never  one,  your  honour,  that  really  happened  be- 
fore," siid  Ned,  with  unblushing  front.  ^' Hovvsomever, 
since  your  honour  fancies  'tis  drinking  I  was,  I'd  rather 
never  drink  again  to  the  world's  end,  than  lose  so  good  a 
master  as  yourself,  and  if  I'm  forgiven  this  once,  and  get 
another  trial " 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Gumbleton,  "you  may,  for  this  once, 
go  into  Mountbally  Gumbletonmore  again;  let  me  see  that 
you  keep  your  promise  as  to  not  drinking,  or  mind  the 
consequences;  and,  above  all,  let  me  hear  no  more  of  the 
good  people,  for  I  don't  believe  a  single  word  about  them, 
whatever  I  may  do  of  bad  ones." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Gumbleton  turned  on  his  heel,  and  Ned's 
countenance  relaxed  into  its  usual  expression. 

"Now  I  would  not  be  after  saying  about  the  good  peo- 
ple what  the  master  said  last,"  exclaimed  Peggy,  the  maid, 
who  was  within  hearing,  and  who,  by  the  v/ay,  had  an  eye 
after  Ned:  '« I  would  not  be  after  saying  such  a  thing;  the 
good  people,  may  be,  will  make  him  feel  the  differ  (differ- 
ence) to  his  cost." 

Nor  was  Peggy  wrong;  for  whether  Ned  Sheehy  dreamt 
of  the  Fir  Darrig  or  not,  within  a  fortnight  after,  two  of 
Mr.  Gumbleton's  cows,  the  best  milkers  in  the  parish,  ran 
dry,  and  before  the  week  was  out,  Modderaroo  was  lying 
dead  in  the  stone  quarry. 


THE  LUCKY  GUEST. 

XXXIII. 

The  kitchen  of  some  country  houses  in  Ireland  presents 
in  no  ways  a  bad  modern  translation  of  the  ancient  feudal 
hall.  Traces  of  clanship  still  linger  round  its  hearth  in 
the  numerous  dependants  on  "the  master's"  bounty. 
Nurses,  foster-brothers,  and  other  hangers-on,  are  there  as 
matter  of  right,  while  the  strolling  piper,  full  of  mirth  and 
music,  the  benighted  traveller,  even  the  passing  beggar,  are 
received   with  a  hearty  welcome,  and   each   contributes 


202  THE  LUCKY  GUEST. 

planxty,  song,  or  superstitious  tale,  towards  the  evening's 
amusement. 

An  assembly,  such  as  has  been  described,  had  collected 
round  the  kitchen  fire  of  Ballyrahenhouse,  at  the  foot  of 
the  Galtee  mountains,  when,  as  is  ever  the  case,  one  tale 
of  wonder  called  forth  another;  and  with  the  advance  of 
the  evening  each  succeeding  story  was  received  with  deep 
and  deeper  attention.  The  history  of  Cough  na  Looba's 
dance  with  the  black  friar  at  Rahill,  and  the  fearful  tradi- 
tion of  Coiim  an  'ir  morrh  (the  dead  man's  hollow,)  were 
listened  to  in  breathless  silence.  A  pause  followed  the  last 
relation,  and  all  eyes  rested  on  the  narrator,  an  old  nurse 
who  occupied  the  post  of  honour,  that  next  the  fire-side. 
She  was  seated  in  that  peculiar  position  which  the  Irish 
name  ^' currigguib,^^  a  position  generally  assumed  by  a  ve- 
teran and  determined  story-teller.  Her  haunches  resting 
upon  the  ground,  and  her  feet  bundled  under  the  body;  her 
arms  folded  across  and  supported  by  her  knees,  and  the 
outstretched  chin  of  her  hooded  head  pressing  on  the  upper 
arm;  which  compact  arrangement  nearly  reduced  the 
whole  figure  into  a  perfect  triangle. 

Unmoved  by  the  general  gaze,  Bridget  Doyle  made  no 
change  of  attitude,  while  she  gravely  asserted  the  truth  of 
the  marvellous  tale  concerning  the  Dead  Man's  Hollow; 
her  strongly  marked  countenance  at  the  time  receiving 
what  painters  term  a  fine  chiaro-obscuro  efiect  from  the 
fire-light 

"  I  have  told  you,"  she  said,  "what  happened  to  my 
owm  people,  the  Butlers  and  the  Doyles,  in  the  old  times; 
but  here  is  little  Ellen  Connell  from  the  county  Cork,  who 
can  speak  to  what  happened  under  her  own  faiher  and  mo- 
ther's roof. 

Ellen,  a  young  and  blooming  girl  of  about  sixteen,  was 
employed  in  the  dairy  at  Ballyrahen.  She  was  the  picture 
of  health  and  rustic  beauty;  and  at  this  hint  from  nurse 
Doyle,  a  deep  blush  mantled  over  her  countenance  ;  yet, 
although  "unaccustomed  to  public  speaking,"  she,  without 
farther  hesitation  or  excuse,  proceeded  as  follows: — 

"It  was  one  May  eve,  about  thirteen  years  ago, and  that 
is,  as  every  body  knows,  the  airiest  day  in  all  the  twelve 
months.     It  is  the  day  above  all  other  days,"  said  Ellen, 


THE  LUCKY  GUEST.  203 

with  her  large  dark  eyes  cast  down  on  the  ground,  and 
drawing  a  deep  sigli,  "when  the  young  boys  and  the 
young  girls  go  looking  after  the  Drutheen,  to  learn  from  it 
rightly  the  name  of  their  sweethearts. 

"  My  father,  and  my  mother,  and  my  two  brothers,  with 
two  or  three  of  the  neighbours,  were  sitting  round  the  turf 
fire,  and  were  talking  of  one  thing  or  another.  My  mo- 
ther was  hushoing  my  little  sister,  striving  to  quieten  her, 
for  she  was  cutting  her  teeth  at  the  time,  and  was  mighty 
uneasy  through  the  means  of  them.  The  day,  which  was 
threatening  all  along,  now  that  it  was  coming  on  to  dusk, 
began  to  rain,  and  the  rain  increased  and  fell  fast  and  faster, 
as  if  it  was  pouring  through  a  sieve  out  of  the  wide  hea- 
vens; and  when  the  rain  stopped  for  a  bit  there  was  a  wind 
which  kept  up  such  a  whistling  and  racket,  that  you  would 
have  thought  the  sky  and  the  earth  Vvcre  coming  together. 
It  blew  and  it  blew,  as  if  it  had  a  mind  to  blow  the  roof 
off  the  cabin,  and  that  would  not  have  been  very  hard  for 
it  to  do,  as  the  thatch  was  quite  loose  in  two  or  three 
places.  Then  the  rain  began  again,  and  you  could  hear  it 
spitting  and  hissing  in  the  fire,  as  it  came  down  through 
the  big  cliimbley. 

"  <  God  bless  us,'  says  my  mother,  *  but  'tis  a  dreadful 
night  to  be  at  sea,'  says  she,  ^and  God  be  praised  that  we 
have  a  roof,  bad  as  it  is,  to  shelter  us.' 

"  I  don't,  to  be  sure,  recollect  all  this,  mistress  Doyle,  but 
only  as  my  brothers  told  it  to  me,  and  other  people,  and 
often  have  I  heard  it;  for  I  was  so  little  then,  that  they  say 
I  could  just  go  under  the  table  without  tipping  my  head. 
Any  way,  it  was  in  the  very  height  of  the  pelting  and 
whistling  that  we  heard  something  speak  outside  the  door. 
My  father  and  all  of  us  listened,  but  there  was  no  more 
noise  at  that  time.  We  waited  a  little  longer,  and  then 
we  plainly  heard  a  sound  like  an  old  man's  voice,  asking 
to  be  let  in,  but  mighty  feeble  and  weak.  Tim  bounced 
up,  without  a  word,  to  ask  us  whether  we'd  like  to  let  the 
old  man,  or  whoever  he  was,  in — having  always  a  heart  as 
soft  as  a  mealy  potato  before  the  voice  of  sorrow.  When 
Tim  pulled  back  the  bolt  that  did  the  door,  in  marched  a 
little  bit  of  a  shrivelled,  weather-beaten  creature,  about 
two  feet  and  a  half  high. 

"  We  were  all  watching  to  see  who'd  come  in,  for  there 


204  THE  LUCKY  GUEST. 

was  a  wall  between  ns  and  the  door;  but  wlien  the  Souiid 
of  the  undoing  of  the  bolt  stopped,  we  heard  Tim  give  a 
sort  of  a  screech,  and  instantly  he  bolted  in  to  us.  He  had 
hardly  time  to  say  a  word,  or  we  either,  when  the  little 
gentleman  shuffled  in  after  him,  without  a  God  save  all 
here,  or  by  your  leave,  or  any  other  sort  of  thing  that  any 
decent  body  might  say.  We  all,  of  one  accord,  scrambled 
over  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  room,  where  we  were,  old 
and  young,  every  one  trying  who'd  get  nearest  the  wall, 
and  farthest  from  him.  All  the  eyes  of  our  body  were 
stuck  upon  him,  but  he  didn't  mind  us  no  more  than  that 
fr3"ing-pan  there  does  now.  He  walked  over  to  the  fire, 
and  squatting  himself  down  like  a  frog,  took  the  pipe  that 
my  father  dropped  from  his  mouth  in  the  hurry,  put  it  into 
his  own,  and  then  began  to  smoke  so  hearty,  that  he  soon 
filled  the  room  of  it. 

"  We  had  plenty  of  time  to  observe  him,  and  my  bro- 
thers say  that  he  wore  a  sugar-loaf  hat  that  was  as  red  as 
blood:  he  had  a  face  as  yellow  as  a  kite's  claw,  and  as  long 
as  to-day  and  to-morrow  put  together,  with  a  moulh  all 
screwed  and  puckered  up  like  a  washerwoman's  hand,  lit- 
tle blue  eyes,  and  rather  a  highish  nose;  his  hair  was  quite 
gray  and  lengthy,  appearing  under  his  hat,  and  flowing 
over  the  cape  of  a  long  scarlet  coat,  which  almost  trailed 
the  ground  behind  him,  and  the  ends  of  which  he  took  up 
and  planked  on  his  knees  to  dry,  as  he  sat  facing  the  fire. 
He  had  smart  corduroy  breeches,  and  woollen  stockings 
drawn  up  over  the  knees,  so  as  to  hide  the  kneebuckles,  if 
he  had  the  pride  to  have  them;  but,  at  any  rate,  if  he 
hadn't  them  in  his  knees  he  had  buckles  in  his  shoes,  out 
before  his  spindle  legs.  When  we  came  to  ourselves  a  lit- 
tle we  thought  to  escape  from  the  room,  but  no  one  would 
go  first,  nor  no  one  would  stay  last;  so  w'e  huddled  our- 
selves together  and  made  a  dart  out  of  the  room.  My  lit- 
tle gentleman  never  minded  any  thing  of  the  scrambling, 
nor  hardly  stirred  himself,  sitting  quite  at  his  ease  before 
the  fire.  The  neighbours,  the  very  instant  minute  they 
got  to  the  door,  although  it  still  continued  pelting  rain,  cut 
gutter  as  if  Oliver  Cromwell  himself  was  at  their  heels; 
and  no  blame  to  them  for  that,  any  how.  It  was  my  fa- 
ther, and  my  mother,  and  my  brothers,  and  myself,  a  little 
hop-of-my-thumb  midge  as  I  was  then,  that  were  left  to 


THE  LUCKY  GUEST.  205 

see  what  would  come  out  of  this  strange  visit;  so  we  all 
went  quietly  to  the  lahhig^'^  scarcely  daring  to  throw  an 
eye  at  him  as  we  passed  the  door.  Never  the  wink  of 
sleep  could  they  sleep  that  live-long  night,  though,  to  be 
sure,  I  slept  like  a  top,  not  knowing  better,  while  they 
were  talking  and  thinking  of  the  little  man. 

"  When  they  got  up  in  the  morning,  every  thing  was  as 
quiet  and  as  tidy  about  the  place  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, for  all  that  the  chairs  and  stools  were  tumbled  here 
there,  and  every  where,  when  we  saw  the  lad  enter. 
Now,  indeed,  I  forget  whether  he  came  next  night  or  not, 
but  any  way,  that  was  the  first  time  we  ever  laid  eye  upon 
him.  This  I  know  for  certain,  that,  about  a  month  after 
that  he  came  regularly  every  night,  and  used  to  give  us  a 
signal  to  be  on  the  move,  for  'twas  plain  he  did  not  like  to 
be  observed.  This  sign  was  alwa5^s  made  about  eleven 
o'clock;  and  then,  if  we'd  look  towards  the  door,  there 
was  a  little  hairy  arm  thrust  in  through  the  keyhole,  which 
would  not  have  been  big  enough,  only  there  was  a  fresh 
hole  made  near  the  first  one,  and  the  bit  of  stick  between 
them  had  been  broken  away,  and  so  'twas  just  fitting  for 
the  little  arm. 

"  The  Fir  Darrlg  continued  his  visits,  never  missing  a 
night,  as  long  as  we  attended  to  the  signal;  smoking  always 
out  of  the  pipe  he  made  his  own  of,  and  warming  himself 
till  day  dawned  before  the  fire,  and  then  going  no  one 
living  knows  where:  but  there  was  not  the  least  mark  of 
him  to  be  found  in  the  morning;  and  'tis  as  true,  nurse 
Doyle,  and  honest  people,  as  you  are  all  here  sitting  before 
me  and  by  the  side  of  me,  that  the  family  continued 
thriving,  and  my  father  and  brothers  rising  in  the  world 
while  ever  he  came  to  us.  When  we  observed  this,  we 
used  always  look  for  the  very  moment  to  see  when  the 
arm  would  come,  and  then  we'd  instantly  fly  off  with  our- 
selves to  our  rest.  But  before  we  found  the  luck,  we  used 
sometimes  sit  still  and  not  mind  the  arm,  especially  when 
a  neighbour  would  be  with  my  father,  or  that  two  or  three 
or  four  of  them  would  have  a  drop  among  them,  and  then 
they  did  not  care  for  all  the  arms,  hairy  or  not,  that  ever 
were  seen.     No  one,  however,  dared  to  speak  to  it  or  of 

*  La6J/^— bed,  from  Lea6a.— Vide  O'Brien  and  O'Reilly. 
18 


206  THE  LUCKY  GUEST. 

it  insolently,  except,  indeed,  one  night  that  Davy  Kennane 
— but  he  was  drunk — walked  over  and  hit  it  a  rap  on  the 
back  of  the  wrist:  the  hand  was  snatched  off  like  lightning; 
but  every  one  knows  that  Davy  did  not  live  a  month  after 
this  happened,  though  he  was  only  about  ten  days  sick. 
The  like  of  such  tricks  are  ticklish  things  to  do. 

"  As  sure  as  the  red  man  would  put  in  his  arm  for  a  sign 
through  the  hole  in  the  door,  and  that  we  did  not  go  and 
open  it  to  him,  so  sure,  some  mishap  befell  the  cattle:  the 
cows  were  elf-stoned,  or  overlooked,  or  something  or  ano- 
ther went  wrong  with  them.  One  night  my  brother  Dan 
refused  to  go  at  the  signal,  and  the  next  day,  as  he  was 
cutting  turf  in  Crogh-na-drimina  bog,  within  a  mile  and  a 
half  of  the  house,  a  stone  was  thrown  at  him  which  broke 
fairly,  with  the  force,  into  two  halves.  Now,  if  that  had 
happened  to  hit  him  he'd  be  at  this  hour  as  dead  as  my 
great  great  grandfather.  It  came  whack  slap  against  the 
spade  he  had  in  his  hand,  and  split  at  once  in  two  pieces. 
He  took  them  up  and  fitted  them  together,  and  they  made 
a  perfect  heart.  Some  way  or  the  other  he  lost  it  since, 
but  he  still  has  the  one  which  was  shot  at  the  spotted  milch 
cow,  before  the  little  man  came  near  us.  Many  and  many 
a  time  I  saw  that  same;  'tis  just  the  shape  of  the  ace  of 
hearts  on  the  cards,  only  it  is  of  a  dark  red  colour,  and 
polished  up  like  the  grate  that  is  in  the  grand  parlour 
within.  When  this  did  not  kill  the  cow  on  the  spot,  she 
swelled  up;  but  if  you  took  and  put  the  elf-stone  under  her 
udder,  and  milked  her  upon  it  to  the  last  stroking,  and 
then  made  her  drink  the  milk,  it  would  cure  her,  and  she 
would  thrive  with  you  ever  after. 

<*But,  as  I  said,  we  were  getting  on  well  enough  as  long 
as  we  minded  the  door  and  watched  for  the  hairy  arm, 
which  we  did  shai-p  enough  when  we  found  it  was  bringing 
luck  to  us,  and  we  were  now  as  glad  to  see  the  little  red 
gentleman,  and  as  ready  to  open  the  door  to  him,  as  we 
used  to  dread  his  coming  at  first  and  be  frightened  of  him. 
But  at  long  last  we  throve  so  well  that  the  landlord — God 
forgive  him — took  notice  of  us,  and  envied  us,  and  asked 
my  father  how  he  came  by  the  penny  he  had,  and  wanted 
him  to  take  more  ground  at  a  rack-rent  that  was  more 
than  any  Christian  ought  to  pay  to  another,  seeing  there 
was  no  making  it.     When  my  father — and  small  blame  tc^ 


THE  LUCKY  GUEST.  207 

him  for  that — refbsed  to  lease  the  ground,  he  turned  us  ofif 
the  bit  of  land  we  had,  and  out  of  the  house  and  all,  and 
left  us  in  a  wide  and  wicked  world,  where  my  father,  for 
he  was  a  soft  innocent  man,  was  not  up  to  the  roguery  and 
trickery  that  was  practised  upon  him.  He  was  taken  this 
way  by  one  and  that  way  by  another,  and  he  treating  them 
that  were  working  his  downfall.  And  he  used  to  take 
bite  and  sup  with  them,  and  they  with  him,  free  enough  as 
long  as  the  money  lasted;  but  when  that  was  gone,  and  he 
had  not  as  much  ground,  that  he  could  call  his  own,  as 
would  sod  a  lark,  they  soon  shabbed  him  off.  The  landlord 
died  not  long  after;  and  he  now  knows  whether  he  acted 
right  or  wrong  in  taking  the  house  from  over  our  heads. 

"It  is  a  bad  thing  for  the  heart  to  be  cast  down,  so  we 
took  anotlier  cabin,  and  looked  out  with  great  desire  for 
the  Fir  Darrig  to  come  to  us.  But  ten  o'clock  came  and 
no  arm,  although  we  cut  a  hole  in  the  door  just  the  moral 
(model)  of  the  other.  Eleven  o'clock! — twelve  o'clock! — 
no,  not  a  sign  of  him:  and  every  night  we  watched,  but  all 
would  not  do.  We  then  travelled  to  the  other  house,  and 
we  rooted  up  the  hearth,  for  the  landlord  asked  so  great  a 
rent  for  it  from  the  poor  people  that  no  one  could  take  it; 
and  we  carried  away  the  very  door  off  the  hinges,  and  we 
brought  every  thing  with  us  that  we  thought  the  little  man 
was  in  any  respect  partial  to,  but  he  did  not  come,  and  we 
never  saw  him  again. 

"  My  father  and  my  mother,  and  my  young  sister,  are 
since  dead,  and  my  two  brothers,  who  could  tell  all  about 
this  better  than  myself,  are  both  of  them  gone  out  with  In- 
gram in  his  last  voyage  to  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  leaving 
me  behind  without  kith  or  kin.'^ 

Here  young  Ellen's  voice  became  choked  with  sorrow, 
and  bursting  into  tears,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  apron. 


Fir  Darrig  means  the  red  man,  and  is  a  member  of  the  fairy 
community  of  Ireland,  who  bears  a  strong  resemblance  to  the 
Shakspearian  Puck,  or  Robin  Goodfellow.  Like  that  merry  goblia 
his  delight  is  in  mischief  and  mockery ;  and  this  Irish  spirit  is  doubt- 
less the  same  as  the  Scottish  Red  Cap;  which  a  writer  in  the  Quar- 
terly Review  (No.  XLIV.  p.  353,)  tracing  national  analogies,  as- 
serts, is  the  Robin  Hood  of  England,  and  the  Saxon  spirit  Hudkin 
or  Hodekin,  so  called  from  the  hoodakin  or  little  hood  wherein  he 
appeared,  a  spirit  similar  to  the  Spanish  Duende.  The  Fir  Darrig 
has  also  some  traits  of  resemblance  in  common  with  the  Scotch 
Brownie,  the  German  Kobold  (particularly  the  celebrated  one,  Hin- 
zelman,)  the  English  Hobgoblin  (Milton's  "  Lubber  Fiend  ")  and 
the  Follet  of  Gervase  of  T^%ury,  who  says  of  the  Folletos,  "  Verba 
utique  humano  more  audiiyj^ter  et  effigies  non  comparent.  De  istis 
pleraque  miracula  memini  me  in  vita  abbreviata  et  miraculis  beatis- 
simi  Antonii  reperisse." — Otia  Imperialia. 

The  red  dress  and  strange  flexibility  of  voice  possessed  by  the  Fir 
Darrig  form  his  peculiar  characteristics;  the  latter,  according  to  Irish 
tale-tellers,  is  like  the  sound  of  the  waves;  and  again  it  is  compared  to 
the  music  of  angels;  the  warbling  of  birds,  &c. ;  and  the  usual  address 
to  this  fairy  is,  Do  not  mock  us.  His  entire  dress,  when  he  is  seen, 
is  invariably  described  as  crimson:  whereas,  Irish  fairies  generally 
appear  in  a  black  hat,  a  green  suit,  white  stockings,  and  red  shoes. 


TREASURE   LEGENDS 


'Bell,  book,  and  candle,  shall  not  drive  me  back 
When  gold  and  silver  becks  me  to  come  on." 


This  is  fairy  gold,  boy,  and  'twill  prove  so." 

Winter' 


Tale. 


DREAMING    TIM   JARVIS. 


XXXIV. 

Timothy  Jarvis  was  a  decent,  honest,  quiet,  hard-work- 
ing man,  as  every  body  knows  that  knows  Balledehob. 

Now  Balledehob  is  a  small  place,  about  forty  miles  west 
of  Cork.  It  is  situated  on  the  summit  of  a  hill,  and  yet  it 
is  in  a  deep  valley;  for  on  all  sides  there  are  lofty  moun- 
tains that  rise  one  above  another  in  barren  grandeur,  and 
seem  to  look  down  with  scorn  upon  the  little  busy  village 
which  they  surround  with  their  idle  and  unprofluctive 
magnificence.  Man  and  beast  have  alike  deserted  them  to 
the  dominion  of  the  eagle,  who  soars  majestically  over 
them.  On  the  highest  of  those  mountains  there  is  a  small, 
and  as  is  commonly  believed,  unfathomable  lake,  the  only 
IS* 


210  DREAMING  TIM  JARVIS. 

inhabitant  of  which  is  a  huge  serpent,  who  has  been  some- 
times seen  to  stretch  its  enormous  head  above  the  waters, 
and  frequently  is  heard  to  utter  a  noise  which  shakes  the 
very  rocks  to  their  foundation. 

But,  as  1  was  saying,  every  body  knew  Tim  Jarvis  to 
be  a  decent,  honest,  quiet,  hard-working  man,  who  was 
thriving  enough  to  be  able  to  give  his  daughter  Nelly  a 
fortune  of  ten  pounds;  and  Tim  himself  would  have  been 
snug  enough  besides,  but  that  he  loved  the  drop  sometimes. 
However,  he  was  seldom  backward  on  rent-day.  His 
ground  was  never  distrained  but  twice,  and  both  times 
through  a  small  bit  of  a  mistake;  and  his  landlord  had 
never  but  once  to  say  to  him — "Tim  Jarvis,  you're  all 
behind,  Tim,  like  the  cow's  tail."  Now  it  so  happened 
that,  being  heavy  in  himself,  through  the  drink,  Tim  took 
to  sleeping,  and  the  sleep  set  Tim  dreaming,  and  he  dreamed 
all  night,  and  night  after  night,  about  crocks  full  of  gold 
and  other  precious  stones;  so  much  so,  that  Norah  Jarvis 
his  wife  could  get  no  good  of  him  by  day,  and  have  little 
comfort  with  him  by  night.  The  gray  dawn  of  the  morn- 
ing would  see  Tim  digging  away  in  a  bog-hole,  may  be,  or 
rooting  under  some  old  stone  walls  like  a  pig.  At  last  he 
dream.t  that  he  found  a  mighty  great  crock  of  gold  and 
silver — and  where  do  5^ou  think?  Every  step  of  the  way 
upon  London-bridge,  itself!  Twice  Tim  dreamt  it,  and 
three  times  Tim  dreamt  the  same  thing;  and  at  last  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  transport  himself,  and  go  over  to 
London,  in  Pat  Mahoney's  coaster — and  so  he  did! 

Well, 'he  got  there,  and  found  the  bridge  without  much 
difficulty.  Every  day  he  walked  up  and  down  looking 
for  the  crock  of  gold,  but  never  the  find  did  he  find  it. 
One  day,  however,  as  he  was  looking  over  the  bridge  into 
the  water,  a  man,  or  something  like  a  man,  with  great 
black  whiskers,  like  a  Hessian,  and  a  black  cloak  that 
reached  down  to  the  ground,  taps  him  on  the  shoulder, 
and  says  he — "Tim  Jarvis,  do  you  see  me?" 

"Surely  I  do,  sir,"  said  Tim;  wondering  that  any  body 
should  know  him  in  that  strange  place. 

"Tim,"  says  he,  "  what  is  it  brings  you  here  in  foreign 
parts,  so  far  away  from  your  own  cabin  by  the  mine  of 
gray  copper  at  Balledehob?" 


DREAMING  TIM  JARVIS.  211 

"Please  your  iionour/'  says  Tim,  "I'm  come  to  seek 
my  fortune.'^ 

"You're  a  fool  for  your  pains,  Tim,  if  that's  all,"  re- 
marked the  stranger  in  the  black  cloak;  "this  is  a  big  place 
to  seek  one's  fortune  in,  to  be  sure,  but  it's  not  so  easy  to 
find  it.'^ 

Now  Tim,  after  debating  a  long  time  with  himself,  and 
considering,  in  the  first  place,  that  it  might  be  the  stranger 
who  was  to  find  the  crock  of  gold  for  him;  and  in  the  next, 
that  the  stranger  might  direct  him  where  to  find  it,  came 
to  the  resolution  of  telling  him  all. 

"  There's  many  a  one  like  me  comes  here  seeking  their 
fortunes,"  said  Titn. 

"True,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  But,"  continued  Tim,  looking  up,  "  the  body  and  bones 
of  the  cause  for  myself  leaving  the  woman,  and  Nelly,  and 
the  boys,  and  travelling  so  far,  is  to  look  for  a  crock  of  gold 
that  I'm  told  is  l)nng  somewhere  hereabouts." 

"And  who  told  you  that,  Tim?" 

"Why  then,  sir,  that's  what  I  can't  tell  myself  rightly 
— only  1  dreamt  it." 

"Ho,  ho!  is  that  all,  Tim!"  said  the  stranger,  laughing; 
"  I  had  a  dream  myself;  and  I  dreamed  that  I  found  a  crock 
of  gold,  in  the  Fort  field,  on  Jerry  Driscoll's  ground  at 
Balledehob;  and  by  the  same  token,  the  pit  where  it  lay 
was  close  to  a  large  furze  bush,  all  full  of  yellow  blossom." 

Tim  knew  Jerry  Driscoll's  ground  well;  and,  moreover, 
he  knew  the  Fort  field  as  well  as  he  knew  his  own  potato 
garden;  he  was  certain,  too,  of  the  very  furze  bush  at  the 
north  end  of  it — so,  swearing  a  bitter  big  oath,  says  he — 

"  By  all  the  crosses  in  a  yard  of  check,  I  always  thought 
there  was  money  in  that  same  field  !" 

The  moment  he  rapped  out  the  oath,  the  stranger  disap- 
peared, and  Tim  Jarvis,  wondering  at  all  that  had  hap- 
pened to  him,  made  the  best  of  his  way  back  to  Ireland. 
Norah,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  had  no  very  warm 
welcome  for  her  runaway  husband — the  dreaming  black- 
guard, as  she  called  him — and  so  soon  as  she  set  eyes  upon 
him,  all  the  blood  of  her  body  in  one  minute  was  into  her 
knuckles  to  be  at  him;  but  Tim,  after  his  long  journey, 
looked  so  cheerful  and  so  happy-like,  that  she  could  not 


312  DREAMING  TIM  JARVIS. 

find  it  in  her  heart  to  give  him  the  first  blow!  He  ma- 
naged to  pacify  his  wife  by  two  or  three  broad  hints  about 
a  new  cloak  and  a  pair  of  shoes,  that,  to  speak  honestly, 
were  much  wanting  for  her  to  go  to  chapel  in;  and  decent 
clothes  for  Nelly  to  go  to  the  patron  with  her  sweetheart, 
and  brogues  for  the  boys,  and  some  corduroy  for  himself. 
"It  wasn't  for  nothing,"  says  Tim,  "I  went  to  foreign  parts 
all  the  ways;  and  you'll  see  what'll  come  out  of  it — mind 
my  words." 

A  few  days  afterwards  Tim  sold  his  cabin  and  his  garden, 
and  bought  the  Fort  field  of  Jerry  Driscoll,  that  had  nothing 
in  it,  but  was  full  of  thistles,  and  old  stones,  and  blackberry 
bushes;  and  all  the  neighbours — as  well  they  might — 
thought  he  was  cracked! 

The  first  night  that  Tim  could  summon  courage  to  begin 
his  work,  he  walked  off"  to  the  field  with  his  spade  upon 
his  shoulder;  and  away  he  dug  all  night  by  the  side  of  the 
furze  bush,  till  he  came  to  a  big  stone.  He  struck  his 
spade  against  it,  and  he  heard  a  hollow  sound;  but  as  the 
morning  had  begun  to  dawn,  and  the  neighbours  would  be 
going  out  to  their  work,  Tim,  not  wishing  to  have  the 
thing  talked  about,  went  home  to  the  little  hovel,  where 
Norah  and  the  children  were  huddled  together  under  a 
heap  of  straw;  for  he  had  sold  every  thing  he  had  in  the 
world  to  purchase  Driscoll's  field,  though  it  was  said  to  be 
"the  back-bone  of  the  world,  picked  by  the  devil." 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  epithets  and  reproaches 
bestowed  by  the  poor  woman  on  her  unlucky  husband  for 
bringing  her  into  such  a  way.  Epithets  and  reproaches, 
which  Tim  had  but  one  mode  of  answering,  as  thus: — 
"Norah,  did  you  see  e'er  a  cow  you'd  like?" — or,  ".Norah, 
dear,  hasn't  Poll  Deasy  a  feather-bed  to  sell?" — or,  "  Norah 
honey,  wouldn't  you  like  your  silver  buckles  as  big  as 
Mrs.  Doyle's?" 

As  soon  as  night  came  Tim  stood  beside  the  furze-bush, 
spade  in  hand.  The  moment  he  jumped  down  into  the  pit 
he  heard  a  strange  rumbling  noise  under  him,  and  so,  put- 
ting his  ear  against  the  great  stone,  he  listened,  and  over- 
heard a  discourse  that  made  the  hair  on  his  head  stand  up 
like  bulrushes,  and  every  limb  tremble. 

"How  shall  we  bother  Tim?"  said  one  voice. 


DREAMING  TIM  JARVIS.  213 

"Take  him  to  the  mountain,  to  be  sure,  and  make  him 
a  toothful  for  the  oulcl  sarpint;  His  long  since  he  has  had  a 
good  meal,"  said  another  voice. 

Tim  shook  like  a  potato-blossom  in  a  storm. 

"No,"  said  a  third  voice;  "plunge  him  in  the  bog,  neck 
and  heels." 

Tim  was  a  dead  man,  barring  the  breath.* 

"Stop!"  said  a  fourth;  but  Tim  heard  no  more,  for  Tim 
was  dead  entirely.  In  about  an  hour,  however,  the  life 
came  back  into  him,  and  he  crept  home  to  Norah. 

When  the  next  night  arrived,  the  hopes  of  the  crock  of 
gold  got  the  better  of  his  fears,  and  taking  care  to  arm 
himself  with  a  bottle  of  potheen,  away  he  went  to  the  field. 
Jumping  into  the  pit,  he  took  a  little  sup  from  the  bottle 
to  keep  his  heart  up — he  then  took  a  big  one — and  then, 
with  desperate  wrench,  he  wrenched  up  the  stone.  All 
at  once,  up  rushed  a  blast  of  wind,  wild  and  fierce,  and 
down  fell  Tim — down,  down  and  down  he  went — until  he 
thumped  upon  what  seemed  to  be,  for  all  the  world,  like  a 
floor  of  sharp  pins,  which  made  him  bellow  out  in  earnest. 
Then  he  heard  a  whisk  and  a  hurra,  and  instantly  voices 
beyond  number  cried  out — 

"  Welcome,  Tim  Jarvis,  dear! 
Welcome,  down  here!" 

Though  Tim's  teeth  chattered  like  magpies  with  the  fright, 
he  continued  to  make  answer — "  I'm  he-he-har-ti-ly  ob-ob- 
liged  to-to  you  all,  gen-gen-tlemen,  fo-for  your  civility  to- 
to  a  poor  stranger  like  myself."  But  though  he  had  heard 
all  the  voices  about  him,  he  could  see  nothing,  the  place 
was  so  dark  and  so  lonesome  in  itself  for  want  of  the  light. 
Then  something  pulled  Tim  by  the  hair  of  his  head,  and 
dragged  him,  he  did  not  know  how  far,  but  he  knew  he 
was  going  faster  than  the  wind,  for  he  heard  it  behind  him, 
trying  to  keep  up  with  him  and  it  could  not.  On,  on,  on, 
he  went,  till  all  at  once,  and  suddenly,  he  was  stopped,  and 
somebody  came  up  to  him,  and  said,  "  Well,  Tim  Jarvis, 
and  how  do  you  like  your  ride?" 

*  ''I'non  mori,  e  non  rimasi  vivo: 

Pensa  oramai  per  te,  s'hai  fior  d'ingegno 
Qual  io  divenni  d'uno  e  d'altro  privo." 

Dante,  Inferno,  canto  34. 


214  DREAMING  TIM  JARVIS. 

"Mighty  well!  I  thank  your  honour,"  said  Tim;  "and 
'twas  a  good  beast  1  rode,  surely!" 

There  was  a  great  laugh  at  Tim's  answer;  and  then  there 
was  a  whispering,  and  a  great  cugger  mugger,  and  cosher- 
ing; and  at  last  a  pretty  little  bit  of  a  voice  said,  *' Shut 
your  eyes,  and  you'll  see,  Tim." 

"By  my  word,  then,"  said  Tim,  "that  is  the  queer  way 
of  seeing;  but  I'm  not  the  man  to  gainsay  you,  so  I'll  do  as 
you  bid  me,  any  how."  Presently  he  felt  a  small  warm 
hand  rubbed  over  his  eyes  with  an  ointment,  and  in  the 
next  minute  he  saw  himself  in  the  middle  of  thousands  of 
little  men  and  women,  not  half  so  high  as  his  brogue,  that 
were  pelting  one  another  with  golden  guineas  and  lily 
white  thirteens*,  as  if  they  were  so  much  dirt.  The  finest 
dressed  and  the  biggest  of  them  all  went  up  to  Tim,  and 
says  he,  "  Tim  Jarvis,  because  you  are  a  decent,  honest, 
quiet,  civil,  well-spoken  man,"  says  he,  "and  know  how  to 
behave  yourself  in  strange  company,  we've  altered  our 
minds  about  you,  and  will  find  a  neighbour  of  yours  that 
will  do  just  as  well  to  give  to  the  old  serpent." 

"Oh,  then,  long  life  to  you,  sir!"  said  Tim,  "and  there's 
no  doubt  of  that." 

"But  what  will  you  say,  Tim,"  inquired  the  little  fel- 
low, "if  we  fill  your  pockets  with  these  yellow  boys? 
What  will  you  say,  Tim,  and  what  wil^  you  do  with 
them?" 

"Your  honour's  honour,  and  your  honour's  glory," 
answered  Tim,  "  I'll  not  be  able  to  say  my  prayers  for  one 
month  with  thanking  you — and  indeed  I've  enough  to  do 
with  them.  I'd  malie  a  grand  lady,  you  see,  at  once  of 
Norah — she  has  been  a  good  wife  to  me.  We'll  have  a 
nice  bit  of  pork  for  dinner;  and,  may  be,  I'd  have  a  glass, 
or  may  be  two  glasses;  or  sometimes,  if  'twas  with  a  friend, 
or  acquaintance,  or  gossip,  you  know,  three  glasses  every 
day;  and  I'd  build  a  new  cabin;  and  I'd  have  a  fresh  egg 
every  morning,  myself,  for  my  breakfast;  and  I'd  snap  my 
fingers  at  the  'squire,  and  beat  his  hounds,  if  they'd  come 
coursing  through  my  fields;  and  I'd  have  a  new  plough; 
and  Norah,  your  honour,  would  have  a  new  cloak,  and  the 
boys  would  have  shoes  and  stockings  as  well  as  Biddy 

*  An  English  shilling  was  thirteen  pence,  Irish  currency. 


DREAMING  TIM  JARVIS.  215 

Leary's  brats — that's  my  sister  that  was — and  Nelly  would 
marry  Bill  Long  of  Affadown;  and,  your  honour,  I'd  have 
some  corduroy  for  myself  to  make  breeches,  and  a  cow, 
and  a  beautiful  coat  with  shining  buttons,  and  a  horse  to 
ride,  or  may  be  two.  I'd  have  every  thing,"  said  Tim,  "  in 
life,  good  or  bad,  that  is  to  be  got  for  love  or  money — 
hurra-whoop! — and  that's  what  I'd  do." 

"Take  care,  Tim,"  said  the  little  fellow,  "your  money- 
would  not  go  faster  than  it  came,  with  your  hurra-whoop." 

But  Tim  heeded  not  this  speech:  heaps  of  gold  were 
around  him,  and  he  filled  and  filled  away  as  hard  as  he 
could,  his  coat  and  his  waistcoat  and  his  breeches  pockets; 
and  he  thought  himself  very  clever,  moreover,  because  he 
stuffed  some  of  the  guineas  into  his  brogues.  When  the 
little  people  perceived  this,  they  cried  out — "Go  home, 
Tim  Jarvis,  go  home,  and  think  yourself  a  lucky  man." 

"1  hope,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "we  won't  part  for  good 
and  all;  but  may  be  ye'll  ask  me  to  see  you  again,  and  to 
give  you  a  fair  and  square  account  of  what  I've  done  with 
your  money." 

To  this  there  was  no  answer,  only  another  shout — "Go 
home,  Tim  Jarvis — go  home — fair  play  is  a  jewel:  but  sluit 
your  eyes,  or  ye'll  never  see  the  light  of  day  again." 

Tim  shut  his  eyes,  knowing  now  that  was  the  way  to 
see  clearly;  and  away  he  was  whisked  as  before — away, 
away  he  went  till  he  again  stopped  all  of  a  sudden. 

He  rubbed  his  eyes  with  his  two  thumbs — and  where 
was  he?  Where,  but  in  the  very  pit  in  the  field  that  was 
Jer  Driscoll's,  and  his  wife  Norali  above  with  a  big  stick 
ready  to  beat  "her  dreaming  blackguard."  Tim  roared  out 
to  the  woman  to  leave  the  life  in  him,  and  put  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  to  show  her  the  gold;  but  he  pulled  out 
nothing  only  a  handful  of  small  stones  mixed  with  yellow 
furze  blossoms.  The  bush  was  under  him,  and  the  great 
flag-stone  that  he  had  wrenched  up,  as  he  thought,  was 
lying,  as  if  it  was  never  stirred,  by  his  side:  the  whisky 
bottle  was  drained  to  the  last  drop;  and  the  pit  was  just  as 
his  spade  had  made  it. 

Tim  Jarvi."^,  vexed,  disappointed,  and  almost  hearts 
broken,  followed  his  wife  home:  and,  strange  to  say,  from 
that  night  he  left  olT  drinking,  and  dreaming,  and  delving 


216  DREAMING  TIM  JARVI9. 

in  bog  holes,  and  rooting  in  old  caves.  He  took  again  to 
his  hard-working  habits,  and  was  soon  able  to  buy  back 
liis  little  cabin  and  former  potato-garden,  and  to  get  all  the 
enjoyment  he  anticipated  from  the  fairy  gold. 

Give  Tim  one,  or  at  most  two  glasses  of  whisky  punch 
(and  neither  friend,  acquaintance,  nor  gossip  can  make  him 
take  more,)  and  he  will  relate  the  story  to  you  much  better 
than  you  have  it  here.  Indeed,  it  is  worth  going  to  Bal- 
ledehob  to  hear  him  tell  it.  He  always  pledges  himself  to 
the  truth  of  every  word  with  his  fore-fingers  crossed;  and 
when  he  comes  to  speak  of  the  loss  of  his  guineas,  he  never 
fails  to  console  himself  by  adding — "If  they  stayed  with 
me  I  wouldn't  have  luck  with  them,  sir;  and  father  O'Shea 
told  me  'twas  as  well  for  me  they  were  changed,  for  if  they 
hadn't,  they'd  have  burned  holes  in  my  pocket,  and  got 
out  that  way. 

I  shall  never  forget  his  solemn  countenance,  and  the  deep 
tones  of  his  warning  voice,  when  he  concluded  his  tale,  by 
telling  me,  that  the  next  day  after  his  ride  with  the  fairies, 
Mick  Dowling  was  missing,  and  he  believed  him  to  be 
given  to  the  sarpint  in  his  place,  as  he  had  never  been 
heard  of  since.  "  The  blessing  of  the  saints  be  between 
all  good  men  and  harm,"  was  the  concluding  sentence  of 
Tim  Jarvis's  narrative,  as  he  flung  the  remaining  drops 
from  his  glass  upon  the  green  sward. 


217 


REN  T-D  A  Y 


XXXV, 


"Oh  nllagone,  ullagone!  this  is  a  wide  world,  but  what 
will  we  do  in  it,  or  where  will  we  go?"  muttered  Bill 
Doody,  as  he  sat  on  a  rock  by  the  Lake  of  Killarney. 
"  Wliat  will  we  do?  to-morrow's  rent-day,  and  Tim  the 
Driver  swears  if  we  don't  pay  up  our  rent,  he'll  cant  every 
hrt^pertli  we  have;  and  then,  sure  enough,  there's  Judy  and 
myself,  and  the  poor  little  graivls,^  will  be  turned  out  to 
starve  on  the  high  road,  for  the  never  a  halfpenny  of  rent 
have  1!  —  Oh  hone,  that  ever  I  should  live  to  see  this  day!" 

Thus  did  Bill  Doody  bemoan  his  hard  fate,  pouring  his 
sorrows  to  the  reckless  waves  of  the  most  beautiful  of 
lakes,  which  seemed  to  mock  his  misery  as  they  rejoiced 
beneath  the  cloudless  sky  of  a  May  morning.  That  lake, 
glittering  in  sunshine,  sprinkled  with  fairy  isles  of  rock 
and  verdure,  and  bounded  by  giant  hills  of  ever-varying 
hues,  might,  with  its  magic  beauty,  charm  all  sadness  but 
despair;  for  alas, 

*'  How  ill  the  scene  that  offers  rest, 
<      And  heart  that  cannot  rest,  agree!" 

Yet  Bill  Doody  was  not  so  desolate  as  he  supposed; 
there  was  one  listening  to  him  he  little  thought  of,  and 
help  was  at  hand  from  a  quarter  he  could  not  have  ex- 
pected. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  my  poor  man?"  said  a 
tall  portly-looking  gentleman,  at  the  same  time  stepping 
out  of  a  furze-brake.  Now  Bill  was  seated  on  a  rock  that 
commanded  the  view  of  a  large  field.  Nothing  in  the  field 
could  be  concealed  from  him,  except  this  furze-brake,  which 
grew  in  a  hollow  near  the  margin  of  the  lake.  He  was, 
therefore,  not  a  little  surprised  at  the  gentleman's  sudden 

*  Children. 
19 


218  RENT-DAY. 

appearance,  and  began  to  question  whether  the  personage 
before  him  belonged  to  this  world  or  not.  He,  however, 
soon  mustered  courage  sufficient  to  tell  him  how  his  crops 
had  failed,  how  some  bad  member  had  charmed  away  his 
butter,  and  how  Tim  the  Driver  threatened  to  turn  him 
out  of  the  farm  if  he  didn't  pay  up  every  penny  of  the  rent 
by  twelve  o'clock  next  daj^. 

"A  sad  story  indeed,"  said  the  stranger;  "but  surely,  if 
you  represented  the  case  to  your  landlord's  agent,  he  won't 
have  the  heart  to  turn  you  out." 

"Heart,  your  honour!  where  would  an  agent  get  a  heart!" 
exclaimed  Bill.  "  I  see  your  honour  does  not  know  him: 
besides,  he  has  an  eye  on  the  farm  this  long  time  for  a  fos- 
terer of  his  own;  so  I  expect  no  mercy  at  all  at  all,  only  to 
be  turned  out." 

"  Take  this,  my  poor  fellow,  take  this,"  said  the  stranger, 
pouring  a  purse  full  of  gold  into  Bill's  old  hat,  which  in 
his  grief  he  had  flung  on  the  ground.  "Pay  the  fellow 
your  rent,  but  I'll  take  care  it  shall  do  him  no  good.  I 
remember  the  time  when  things  went  otherwise  in  this 
country,  when  I  would  have  hung  up  such  a  fellow  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye!" 

These  words  were  lost  upon  Bill,  who  was  insensible  to 
every  thing  but  the  sight  of  the  gold,  and  before  he  could 
unfix  his  gaze,  and  lift  up  his  head  to  pour  out  his  hundred 
thousand  blessings,  the  stranger  was  gone.  The  bewil- 
dered peasant  looked  around  in  search  of  his  benefactor, 
and  at  last  he  thought  he  saw  him  riding  on  a  white  horse 
a  long  way  ofif  on  the  lake. 

"0'Donog;hue,  O'Donoghue!"  shouted  Bill;  ^<  the  good, 
the  blessed  O'Donoghue!"  and  he  ran  capering  like  a  mad- 
man to  show  Judy  the  gold,  and  to  rejoice  her  heart  with 
the  prospect  of  wealth  and  happiness. 

The  next  day  Bill  proceeded  to  the  agent's;  not  sneak- 
ingly,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
and  his  knees  bending  under  him;  but  bold  and  upright, 
like  a  man  conscious  of  his  independence. 

"Why  don't  you  take  off"  your  hat,  fellow;  don't  you 
know  you  are  speaking  to  a  magistrate?"  said  the  agent. 

"I  know  Pm  not  speaking  to  the  king,  sir,"  said  Bill; 


RENT-DAY.  219 

«  and  I  never  takes  off  my  hat  but  to  them  I  can  respect 
and  love.  The  Eye  that  sees  all  knows  Fve  no  right 
either  lo  respect  or  love  an  agent!" 

"You  scoundrel!"  retorted  the  man  in  office,  biting  his 
lips  with  rage  at  such  an  unusual  and  unexpected  opposi- 
tion, "  I'll  teach  )^ou  how  to  be  insolent  again — I  have  the 
power,  remember." 

"To  the  cost  of  the  country,  I  know  you  have,"  said 
Bill,  who  still  remained  with  his  head  as  firmly  covered 
as  if  he  was  the  lord  Kingsale  himself. 

"But  come,"  said  the  magistrate;  "have  you  got  the 
money  for  me? — this  is  rent-day.  If  there's  one  penny  of 
it  wanting,  or  the  running  gale  that's  due,  prepare  to  turn 
out  before  night,  for  you  shall  not  remain  another  hour  in 
possession." 

"There  is  your  rent,"  said  Bill,  with  an  unmoved  ex- 
pression of  tone  and  countenance;  "you'd  better  count  it, 
and  give  me  a  receipt  in  full  for  the  running  gale  and  all." 

The  agent  gave  a  look  of  amazement  at  the  gold;  for  it 
was  gold — real  guineas!  and  not  ilits  of  dirty  ragged  small 
notes,  that  are  only  fit  to  light  one's  pipe  with.  However 
willing  the  agent  may  have  been  to  ruin,  as  he  thought, 
the  unfortunate  tenant,  he  took  up  the  gold,  and  handed 
the  receipt  to  Bill,  who  strutted  off  with  it  as  proud  as  a 
cat  of  her  whiskers. 

The  agent  going  to  his  desk  shortly  after,  was  confounded 
at  beholding  a  heap  of  gingerbread  cakes  instead  of  the 
money  he  had  deposited  there.  He  raved  and  swore,  but 
all  to  no  purpose;  the  gold  had  become  gingerbread  cakes, 
just  marked  like  the  guineas,  with  the  king's  head,  and 
Bill  had  the  receipt  in  his  pocket;  so  he  saw  there  was  no 
use  in  saying  any  thing  about  the  affair,  as  he  would  only 
get  laughed  at  for  his  pains. 

From  that  hour  Bill  Doody  grew  rich;  all  his  under- 
takings prospered;  and  he  often  blesses  the  day  that  he 
met  w^itli  O'Donoghue,  the  great  prince  that  lives  down 
under  the  lake  of  Killarney. 

Like  the  butterfly,  the  spirit  of  O'Donoghue  closely  hovers 
over  the  perfume  of  the  hills  and  flowers  it  loves;  while, 
as  the  reflection  of  a  star  in  the  waters  of  a  pure  lake,  to 


220  LINN-NA-PATSHTHA. 

those  who  look  not  above,  that  glorious  spirit  is  believed 
to  dwell  beneath. 


LINN-NA-PAYSHTHA. 


XXXVI. 


Travellers  go  to  L^inster  to  see  Dublin  and  the  Dar- 
gle;  to  Ulster,  to  see  the  Giant's  Causeway,  and,  perhaps, 
to  do  penance  at  Lough  Dearg;  to  Munster,  to  see  Killar- 
ney,  the  beautiful  city  of  Cork,  and  half  a  dozen  other 
fine  things;  but  who  ever  thinks  of  the  fourth  province?— 
who  ever  thinks  of  going — 

— "westward,  where  Dick  Martin  ruled 
The  houseless  wilds  of  CunnemaraT" 

The  Ulster-man's  ancient  denunciation  '^  to  hell  or  to 
Connaught,"  has  possibly  led  to  the  supposition  that  this 
is  a  sort  of  infernal  place  above  ground — a  kind  of  terres- 
trial Pandemonium — in  short,  that  Connaught  is  little  better 
than  hell,  or  hell  little  worse  than  Connaught;  but  let  any 
one  only  go  there  for  a  month,  and,  as  the  natives  say,  "I'll 
warrant  he'll  soon  see  the  differ,  and  learn  to  understand 
that  it  is  mighty  like  the  rest  o'  green  Erin,  only  something 
poorer;"  and  yet  it  might  be  thought  that  in  this  particular 
*^  worse  would  be  needless;"  but  so  it  is. 

"My  gracious  me,'^  said  the  landlady  of  the  Inn  at  Sli- 
go,  "  1  wonder  a  gentleman  of  your  teeste  and  curosity  would 
think  of  leaving  Ireland  without  making  a  tower  (tour)  of 


LINN-NA-PATSHTHA.  2^1 

Connaught,  if  it  was  nothing  more  than  spending  a  day  at 
Hazlevvood,  and  up  the  lake,  and  on  to  the  ould  abbey  at 
Friarslovvn,  and  the  castle  at  Dromahair." 

Polly  M'Bride,  my  kind  hostess,  might  not  in  this  re- 
monstrance have  been  altogether  disinterested;  but  her  ad- 
vice prevailed,  and  the  dawn  of  the  following  morning 
found  me  in  a  boat  on  the  unruffled  surface  of  Lough  Gill. 
Arrived  at  the  head  of  that  splendid  sheet  of  water,  covered 
with  rich  and  wooded  islands  with  their  ruined  buildings, 
and  bounded  by  towering  mountains,  noble  plantations, 
grassy  slopes,  and  precipitous  rocks,  which  give  beauty,  and, 
in  some  places,  sublimity  to  its  shores,  I  proceeded  at  once 
up  the  wide  river  which  forms  its  principal  tributary.  The 
"  old  abbey  "  is  chiefly  remarkable  for  having  been  built 
at  a  period  nearer  to  the  Reformation  than  any  other  eccle- 
siastical edifice  of  the  same  class.  Full  within  view  of  it, 
and  at  the  distance  of  half  a  mile,  stands  the  shattered 
remnant  of  Breffni's  princel}-  hall.  I  strode  forward  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  an  antiquary,  and  the  high-beating  heart 
of  a  patriotic  Irishman.  I  felt  myself  on  classic  ground, 
immortalized  by  the  lays  of  Swift  and  of  Moore.  I  pushed 
my  way  into  the  hallowed  precincts  of  the  grand  and  ve- 
nerable edifice.  I  entered  its  chambers,  and,  oh  my  coun- 
trymen, I  found  them  converted  into  the  domicile  of  pigs, 
cows,  and  poultry!  But  the  exterior  of"  O'Rourke's  old 
hall,"  gray,  frowning,  and  ivy-covered,  is  well  enough;  it 
stands  on  a  beetling  precipice,  round  which  a  noble  river 
wheels  its  course.  The  opposite  bank  is  a  very  steep  as- 
cent, thickly  wooded,  and  rising  to  a  height  of  at  least  se- 
venty feet;  and,  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  this  beautiful  copse 
follows  the  course  of  the  river. 

The  first  individual  1  encountered  was  an  old  cowherd; 
nor  was  I  unfortunate  in  my  cicerone,  for  he  assured  me 
there  were  plenty  of  old  stories  about  strange  things  that 
used  to  be  in  the  place;  "  but,"  continued  he,  "for  my  own 
share,  I  never  met  any  thing  worse  nor  myself.  If  it  bees 
ould  stories  that  your  honour's  after,  the  story  about  Linn- 
na-Payshtha  and  Poul-m.aw-Gullyawn  is  the  only  thing 
about  this  place  that's  worth  one  jack-straw.  Does  your 
honour  see  that  great  big  black  hole  in  the  river  yonder 
below?''     He  pointed  my  attention  to  a  part  of  the  river 

19* 


222  LINN-NA-PAYSHTHA. 

about  fifty  yards  from  the  old  hall,  where  a  long  island  oc- 
cupied the  centre  of  the  wide  current,  the  water  at  one  side 
running  shallow,  and  at  the  other  assuming  every  appear- 
ance of  unfathomable  depth.  The  spacious  pool,  dark  and 
still,  wore  a  death-like  quietude  of  surface.  It  looked  as 
if  the  speckled  trout  would  shun  its  murky  precincts — as 
if  even  the  daring  pike  would  shrink  from  so  gloomy  a 
dwelling-place.  "  That's  Linn-na-Payslitha,  sir,"  resumed 
my  guide,  ''and  Poul-maw-GuUyawn  is  just  the  very  moral 
of  it,  only  that  it's  round,  and  not  in  a  river,  but  standing 
out  in  the  middle  of  a  green  field,  about  a  short  quarter  of 
a  mile  from  this.  Well,  'tis  as  good  as  fourscore  years — T 
often  hard  my  father,  God  be  merciful  to  him!  tell  the 
story — since  Manus  O'Rourke,  a  great  buckeen,  a  cock- 
fighting,  drinking  blackguard  that  was  long  ago,  went  to 
sleep  one  night,  and  had  a  dream  about  Linn-na-Payshtha. 
This  Manus,  the  dirty  spalpeen,  there  was  no  ho  with  him; 
he  thought  to  ride  rough-shod  over  his  betters  through  the 
whole  countr}^,  though  he  was  not  one  of  the  real  stock  of 
the  O'Rourkes.  Well,  this  fellow  had  a  dream  that  if  he 
dived  in  Linn-na-Payshtha  at  twelve  o'clock  of  a  Hollow- 
eve  night,  he'd  find  more  gold  than  would  make  a  man  of 
him  and  his  wife,  while  grass  grew  or  water  ran.  The 
next  night  he  had  the  same  dream,  and  sure  enough,  if  he 
had  it  the  second  night,  it  came  to  him  the  third  in  the 
same  form.  Manus,  well  becomes  him,  never  told  mankind 
or  womankind,  but  swore  to  himself,  by  all  the  books  that 
were  ever  shut  or  open,  that,  any  how,  he  would  go  to  the 
bottom  of  the  big  hole.  What  did  he  care  for  the  Paysh- 
tha-more  that  was  lying  there  to  keep  guard  on  the  gold 
and  silver  of  the  old  ancient  family  that  was  buried  there 
in  the  wars,  packed  up  in  the  brewing-pan?  Sure  he  was 
as  good -an  O'Rourke  as  the  best  of  them,  taking  care  to 
forget  that  his  grandmother's  father  was  a  cow-boy  to  the 
earl  O'Donnel.  At  long  last  Hollow-eve  comes,  and  sly 
and  silent  master  Manus  creeps  to  bed  early,  and  just  at 
midnight  steals  dovvn  to  the  river-side.  When  he  came 
to  the  bank  his  mind  misgave  him,  and  he  wheeled  up  to 
Frank  M'Clure's — the  old  Frank  that  was  then  at  that  time 
— and  got  a  bottle  of  whisky,  and  took  it  with  him,  and  'tis 
unknown  how  much  of  it  he  drank.     He  walked  across  to 


LINN-NA-PAYSHTHA.  223 

the  island,  and  down  he  went  gallantly  to  the  bottom  like 
a  stone.  Sure  enough  the  Payshtha  was  there  afore  him, 
lying  like  a  great  big  conger  eel,  seven  yards  long,  and  as 
thick  as  a  bull  in  the  body,  with  a  mane  upon  his  neck 
like  a  horse.  The  Payshtha-more  reared  himself  up;  and, 
looking  at  the  poor  man  as  if  he'd  eat  him,  says  he,  in  good 
English, 

"  ^  Arrah,  then,  Manus,'  says  he,  ^  vvhat  brought  5^ou 
here?  It  would  have  been  better  for  you  to  have  blown 
your  brains  out  at  once  with  a  pistol,  and  have  made  a 
quiet  end  of  yourself,  than  to  have  come  down  here  for  me 
to  deal  with  you.' 

"  ^Oh,  plase  your  honour,'  says  Manus,  *  I  beg  my  life:' 
and  there  he  stood  shaking  like  a  dog  in  a  wet  sack. 

"  '  Well,  as  you  have_some  blood  of  the  O'Rourkes  in 
you,  I  forgive  you  this  once;  but,  by  this  and  by  that,  if 
ever  I  see  you,  or  any  one  belonging  to  you,  coming  about 
this  place  again,  I'll  hang  a  quarter  of  you  on  every  tree 
in  the  wood.' 

"' Go  home,'  says  the  Payshtha — ^go  home,  Manus,' 
says  he;  ^  and  if  you  can't  make  better  use  of  your  time, 
get  drunk;  but  don't  come  here,  bothering  me.  Yet,  stop! 
since  you  are  here,  and  have  ventured  to  come,  I'll  show 
you  something  that  you'll  remember  till  you  go  to  your 
grave,  and  ever  after,  while  you  live.' 

"With  that,  my  dear,  he  opens  an  iron  door  in  the  bed 
of  the  river,  and  never  the  drop  of  water  ran  into  it;  and 
there  Manus  sees  a  long  dry  cave,  or  under-ground  cellar 
like,  and  the  Payshtha  drags  him  in,  and  shuts  the  door. 
It  wasn't  long  before  the  baste  began  to  get  smaller,  and 
smaller,  and  smaller;  and  at  last  he  grew  as  little  as  a 
taughn  of  twelve  )^ears  old;  and  there  he  was  a  brownish 
little  man,  about  four  feet  high. 

"  ^  Plase  your  honour,'  says  Manus,  ^  if  I  might  make  so 
bold,  may  be  you  are  one  of  the  good  people?' 

"  ^  May  be  1  am,  and  may  be  I  am  not;  but,  any  how, 
all  you  have  to  understand  is  this,  that  I'm  bound  to  look 
after  the  Thiernas*  of  Breffni,  and  take  care  of  them  through 
every  generation;  and  that  my  present  business  is  to  watch 

*  Tighearna — a  lord.     Vide  O'Bribn. 


324  LtNN-NA-PAYSHTHA. 

this  cave,  and  what's  in  it,  till  the  old  stock  is  reigning, 
over  this  country  once  more.' 

"  i  May  be  you  are  a  sort  of  a  banshee?' 
"  '  I  am  not,  you  fool,'  said  the  little  man.     '  The  ban- 
shee is  a  woman.     My  business  is  to  live  in  the  form  you 
first  saw  me,  in  guarding  this  spot.     And  now  hold  your 
tongue,  and  look  about  you.' 

"Manus  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  right  and  left,  be- 
fore and  behind;  and  there  were  the  vessels  of  gold  and  the 
vessels  of  silver,  the  dishes,  and  the  plates,  and  the  cups, 
and  the  punch-bo\vls,  and  the  tankards:  there  was  the 
golden  mether,  too,  that  every  Thierna  at  his  wedding  used 
to  drink  out  of  to  the  kerne  in  real  usquebaugh.  There 
was  all  the  money  that  ever  was  saved  in  the  family  since 
they  got  a  grant  of  this  manor,  in  the  days  of  the  Firbolgs, 
down  to  the  time  of  their  outer  ruination.  He  then 
brought  Manus  on  with  him  to  where  there  was  arms  for 
three  hundred  men  ;  and  the  sword  set  with  diamonds,  and 
the  golden  helmet  of  the  O'Rourke;  and  he  showed  him 
the  staff  made  out  of  an  elephant's  tooth,  and  set  with  ru- 
bies and  gold,  that  the  Thierna  used  to  hold  while  he  sat 
in  his  great  hall,  giving  justice  and  the  laws  of  the  Bre- 
hons  to  all  his  clan.  The  first  room  in  the  cave,  ye  see, 
had  the  money  and  the  plate,  the  second  room  had  the 
arms,  and  the  third  had  the  books,  papers,  parchments, 
title-deeds,  wills,  and  every  thing  else  of  the  sort  belonging 
to  the  family. 

"  '  And  now,  Manus,'  says  the  little  man,  ^  ye  seen  the 
whole  o'  this,  and  go  your  ways;  but  never  come  to  this 
place  any  more,  or  allow  any  one  else.  I  must  keep  watch 
and  ward  till  the  Sassanach  is  druv  out  of  Ireland,  and  the 
Thiernas  o'  Breffni  in  their  glory  again.'  The  little  man 
then  stopped  for  awhile  and  looked  up  in  Manus's  face, 
and  says  to  him  in  a  great  passion,  '  Arrah  !  bad  luck  to  ye, 
Manus,  why  d6n't  ye  go  about  your  business?' 

"  «  How  can  I? — sure  you  must  show  me  the  way  out,' 
says  Manus,  making  answer.  The  little  man  then  pointed 
forward  with  his  finger. 

"  ^  Can't  we  go  out  the  way  we  came?'  says  Manus. 
"  '  No,  you  must   go  out  at  the   other  end — that's   the 
rule  o'  this  place.     Ye  came  in  at  Linn-na-Payshtha,  and 


LINN-NA-PAYSHTHA.  825 

you  must  go  out  at  Poul-maw-Gullyawn:  ye  came  down 
like  a  stone  to  the  bottom  of  one  hole,  and  ye  must  spring 
up  like  a  cork  to  the  top  of  the  other.'  With  that  the  little 
man  gave  him  one  hoise,  and  all  that  Manus  remembers 
was  the  roar  of  the  water  in  his  ears;  and  sure  enough  he 
was  found  the  next  morning,  high  and  dry,  fast  asleep  with 
the  empty  bottle  beside  him,  but  far  enough  from  tlie  place 
he  thought  he  landed,  for  it  was  just  below  yonder  on  the 
island  that  his  wife  found  him.  My  father,  God  be  merciful 
to  him!  heard  Manus  swear  to  every  word  of  the  story." 


As  there  are  few  things  which  excite  human  desire  throughout  all 
nations  more  than  wealth,  the  legends  concerning  the  concealment, 
discovery  and  circulation  of  money,  are,  as  may  be  expected,  widely 
extended;  yet  in  all  the  circumstances,  which  admit  of  so  much  fan- 
ciful embellishment,  there  every  where  exists  a  striking  similarity. 

Like  the  golden  apples  of  the  Hesperides,  treasure  is  guarded  by  a 
dragon  or  serpent.  Vide  Creuzer,  Religions  de  I'Antiquite,  traduction 
de  Guigniaut,  i.  248.  Paris,  1825.  Stories  of  its  discovery  in  conse- 
quence of  dreams  or  spiritual  agency  are  so  numerous,  that,  if  col- 
lected, they  would  fill  many  volumes,  yet  they  vary  little  in  detail 
beyond  the  actors  and  locality.  Vide  Grimm's  Deutsche  Sagen,  i. 
290.  Thiele's  Danske  Folkesagn,  i.  112,  ii.  24.  Kirke's  Secret 
Commonwealth,  p.  12,  &c. 

The  circulation  of  money  bestowed  by  the  fairies  or  supernatural 
personages,  like  that  of  counterfeit  coin,  is  seldom  extensive.  See 
story,  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  of  the  old  rogue  whose  tine-looking 
money  turned  to  leaves.  When  Waldemar,  Holgar,  and  Green  Jette 
in  Danish  tradition,  bestow  money  upon  the  boors  whom  they  meet, 
their  gift  sometimes  turns  to  fire,  sometimes  to  pebbles,  and  some- 
times is  so  hot,  that  the  receiver  drops  it  from  his  hand,  when  the 
gold,  or  what  appeared  to  be  so,  sinks  into  the  ground. 

In  poor  Ireland,  the  wretched  peasant  contents  himself  by  solilo- 
quizing— "  Money  is  the  devil,  they  say;  and  God  is  good  that  He 
keeps  it  from  us." 


ROCKS   AND    STONES. 


"Forms  in  silence  frown'd, 
Shapeless  and  nameless ;  and  to  mine  eye 
Sometimes  they  rolled  off  cloudily, 
Wedding  themselves  with  gloom — or  grew 
Gigantic  to  my  troubled  view, 
And  seem'd  to  gather  round  me." 

Banim's  CeWs  Paradise, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  CAIRN  THIERNA. 


XXXVII. 

From  the  town  of  Fermoy,  famous  for  the  excellence  of 
its  bottled  ale,  you  may  plainly  see  the  mountain  of  Cairn 
Thierna.  It  is  crowned  with  a  great  heap  of  stones,  which, 
as  the  country  people  remark,  never  came  there  without 
'^a  crooked  thought  and  a  cross  job.'^  Strange  it  is,  that 
any  work  of  the  good  old  times  should  be  considered  one 
of  labour;  for  round  towers  then  sprung  up  like  mushrooms 
in  one  night,  and  people  j^layed  marbles  with  pieces  of. 
rock,  that  can  now  no  more  be  moved  than  the  hills  them- 
selves. ( 


LEGEND  OF  CAIRN  THIERNA.  227 

This  great  pile  on  the  top  of  Cairn  Thierna  was  caused 
by  the  words  of  an  old  woman,  whose  bed  still  remains — 
Labacally,  the  hag's  bed — not  far  from  the  village  of 
G  Ian  worth.  She  was  certainly  far  wiser  than  any  woman, 
either  old  or  young,  of  my  immediate  acquaintance.  Jove 
defend  me,  however,  from  making  an  envious  comparison 
between  ladies;  but  facts  are  stubborn  things,  and  the  le- 
gend will  prove  my  assertion. 

O'Keefe  was  lord  of  Fermoy  before  the  Roches  came 
into  that  part  of  the  country;  and  he  had  an  only  son — 
never  was  there  seen  a  finer  child;  his  young  face  filled 
with  innocent  joy  was  enough  to  make  any  heart  glad,  yet 
his  father  looked  on  iiis  smiles  with  sorrow,  for  an  old  hag 
had  foretold  that  this  boy  should  be  drowned  before  he 
grew  up  to  manhood. 

Now,  although  the  prophecies  of  Pastorini  were  a  fail- 
ure, it  is  no  reason  why  prophecies  should  altogether  be 
despised.  The  art  in  modern  times  may  be  lost,  as  well 
as  that  of  making  beer  out  of  the  mountain  heath,  which 
the  Danes  did  to  great  perfection.  But  I  take  it,  the  malt 
of  Tom  Walker  is  no  bad  substitute  for  the  one;  and  if 
evil  prophecies  were  to  come  to  pass,  like  the  old  woman's, 
in  my  opinion  we  are  far  more  comfortable  without  such 
knowledge. 

"Infant  heir  of  proud  Fermoy, 
Fear  fiot  fields  of  slaughter; 
Storm  and  fire  fear  not,  my  boy, 
But  shun  the  fatal  water." 

These  were  the  warning  words  which  caused  the  chief  of 
Fermoy  so  much  unhappiness.  His  infant  son  was  care- 
fully prevented  all  approach  to  the  river,  and  anxious 
watch  was  kept  over  every  playful  movement.  The  child 
grew  up  in  strength  and  in  beauty,  and  every  day  became 
more  dear  to  his  father,  who,  hoping  to  avert  the  doom, 
which,  however,  was  inevitable,  prepared  to  build  a  castle 
far  removed  from  the  dreaded  element. 

The  top  of  Cairn  Thierna  was  the  place  chosen;  and  the 
lord's  vassals  were  assembled,  and  employed  in  collecting 
materials  for  the  purpose.  Hither  came  the  fated  boy; 
with   delight  he  viewed   the   laborious  work  of  raising 


32S  LEGEND  OF  CAIRN  THIEHNA. 

mighty  stones  from  the  base  to  the  summit  of  the  moun- 
tain, until  the  vast  heap  which  now  forms  its  rugged  crest 
was  accumulated.  The  workmen  were  about  to  commence 
the  building,  and  the  boy,  who  was  considered  in  safety 
when  on  the  mountain,  was  allowed  to  rove  about  at  will. 
In  his  case  how  true  are  the  words  of  the  great  dramatist: 

"  Put  but  a  little  water  in  a  spoon, 

And  it  shall  be,  as  all  the  ocean, 
Enough  to  stifle  such  a  being  up." 

A  vessel  which  contained  a  small  supply  of  water,  brought 
there  for  the  use  of  the  workmen,  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  child.  He  saw,  with  wonder,  the  glitter  of  the  sun- 
beams within  it;  he  approached  more  near  to  gaze,  when  a 
form  resembling  his  own  arose  before  him.  He  gave  a  cry 
of  joy  and  astonishment  and  drew  back;  the  image  drew 
back  also,  and  vanished.  Again  he  approached;  again  the 
form  appeared,  expressing  in  every  feature  delight  corre- 
sponding with  his  own.  Eager  to  welcome  the  young 
stranger,  he  bent  over  the  vessel  to  press  his  lips;  and,  losing 
his  balance,  the  fatal  (jrophecy  was  accomplished. 

The  father  in  despair  abandoned  the  commenced  build- 
ing; and  the  materials  remain  a  proof  of  the  folly  of  at- 
tempting to  avert  the  course  of  fate. 


229 


THE  ROCK  OF  THE  CANDLE. 

XXXVIII. 

A  FEW  miles  west  of  Limerick  stands  the  once  formida- 
ble castle  of  Carrigogunnel.  Its  riven  tower  and  broken 
archway  remain  in  mournful  evidence  of  the  sieges  sus- 
tained by  that  city.  Time,  however,  the  great  soother  of 
all  things,  has  destroyed  the  painful  effect  which  the  view 
of  recent  violence  produces  on  the  mind.  The  ivy  creeps 
around  the  riven  tower,  concealing  its  injuries,  and  uphold- 
ing it  by  a  tough  swathing  of  stalks.  The  archway  is 
again  united  by  the  long-armed  brier  which  grows  across 
the  rent,  and  the  shattered  buttresses  are  decorated  with 
wild  flowers,  which  gaily  spring  from  their  crevices  and 
broken  places. 

Boldly  situated  on  a  rock,  the  ruined  walls  of  Carrigo- 
gunnel now  form  only  a  romantic  feature  in  the  peaceful 
landscape.  Beneath  them,  on  one  side,  lies  the  flat  marshy 
ground  called  Corcass  land,  which  borders  the  noble  river 
Sliannon;  on  the  other  side  is  seen  the  neat  parish  church 
of  Kilkeedy,  with  its  glebe-house  and  surrounding  im- 
provements; and  at  a  short  distance  appear  the  irregular 
mud  cabins  of  the  little  village  of  Ballybrown,  with  the 
venerable  trees  of  Tervoo. 

On  the  rock  of  Carrigogunnel,  before  the  castle  was  built, 
or  Brien  Boro  born  to  build  it,  dwelt  a  hag  named  Grana, 
who  made  desolate  the  surrounding  country.  She  was  gi- 
gantic in  size,  and  frightful  in  appearance.  Her  eyebrows 
grew  into  each  other  with  a  grim  curve,  and  beneath  their 
matted  bristles,  deeply  sunk  in  her  head,  two  small  gray 
eyes  darted  forth  baneful  looks  of  evil.  From  her  deeply- 
wrinkled  forehead  issued  forth  a  hooked  beak,  dividing 
two  shrivelled  cheeks.  Her  skinny  lips  curled  with  a 
cruel  and  malignant  expression,  and  her  prominent  chin 
was  studded  with  bunches  of  grisly  hair. 

Death  was  her  sport.     Like  the  angler  with  his  rod,  the 
hag  Grana  would  toil,  and  watch,  nor  think  it  labour,  so 
20 


230  THE  ROCK  OF  THE  CANDLE. 

that  the  death  of  a  victim  rewarded  her  vigils.  Every 
evening  did  she  light  an  enchanted  candle  upon  the  rock, 
and  whoever  looked  upon  it  died  before  the  next  morning's 
sun  arose.  Numberless  were  the  victims  over  whom 
Grana  rejoiced;  one  after  the  other  had  seen  the  light,  and 
their  death  was  the  consequence.  Hence  came  the  country 
round  to  be  desolate,  and  Carrigogunnel,  the  Rock  of  the 
Candle,  by  its  dreaded  name. 

These  were  fearful  times  to  live  in.  But  the  Finnii  of 
Erin  were  the  avengers  of  the  oppressed.  Their  fame  had 
gone  forth  to  distant  shores,  and  their  deeds  were  sung  by 
a  hundred  bards.  To  them  the  name  of  danger  was  an 
invitation  to  a  rich  banquet.  The  web  of  enchantment 
stopped  their  course  as  little  as  the  swords  of  an  enemy. 
Many  a  mother  of  a  son — many  a  wife  of  a  husband — many 
a  sister  of  a  brother,  had  the  valour  of  the  Finnian  heroes 
bereft.  Dismembered  limbs  quivered,  and  heads  bounded 
on  the  ground  before  their  progress  in  battle.  They  rushed 
forward  with  the  strength  of  the  furious  wind,  tearing  up 
the  trees  of  the  forest  by  their  roots.  Loud  was  their  war- 
cry  as  the  thunder,  raging  was  their  impetuosity  above  that 
of  common  men,  and  fierce  was  their  anger  as  the  stormy 
waves  of  the  ocean ! 

It  was  the  mighty  Finn  himself  who  lifted  up  his  voice, 
and  commanded  the  fatal  candle  of  the  hag  Grana  to  be 
extinguished.  "  Thine,  Regan,  be  the  task,"  he  said,  and 
to  him  he  gave  a  cap  thrice  charmed  by  the  magician  Luno 
of  Lochlin. 

With  the  star  of  the  same  evening  the  candle  of  death 
burned  on  the  rock,  and  Regan  stood  beneath  it.  Had  he 
beheld  the  slightest  glimmer  of  its  blaze,  he,  too,  would 
have  perished,  and  the  hag  Grana,  with  the  morning's 
dawn,  rejoiced  over  his  corse.  When  Regan  looked  to- 
wards the  light,  the  charmed  cap  fell  over  his  eyes  and 
prevented  his  seeing.  The  rock  was  steep,  but  he  climbed 
up  its  craggy  side  with  such  caution  and  dexterity,  that, 
before  the  hag  was  aware,  the  warrior,  with  averted  head, 
had  seized  the  candle,  and  flung  it  with  prodigious  force 
into  the  river  Shannon;  the  hissing  waters  of  which 
quenched  its  light  for  ever! 


THE  ROCK  OP  THE  CANDLE.  231 

Then  flew  the  charmed  cap  from  the  eyes  of  Regan,  and 
he  beheld  the  enraged  hag,  with  outstretched  arms,  prepared 
to  seize  and  whirl  him  after  her  candle.  Regan  instantly 
bounded  westward  from  the  rock  just  two  miles,  with  a 
wild  and  wondrous  spring.  Grana  looked  for  a  moment 
at  the  leap,  and  then  tearing  up  a  huge  fragment  of  the 
rock,  flung  it  after  Regan  with  such  tremendous  force,  that 
her  crooked  hands  trembled  and  her  broad  chest  heaved 
with  heavy  pufis,  like  a  smith's  labouring  bellows,  from 
the  exertion. 

The  ponderous  stone  fell  harmless  to  the  ground,  for  the 
leap  of  Regan  far  exceeded  the  strength  of  the  furious  hag. 
In  triumph  he  returned  to  Fin; 

"  The  hero  valiant,  renowned,  and  learned; 
White-tooth'd,  graceful,  magnanimous,  and  active." 

The  hag  Grana  was  never  heard  of  more;  but  the  stone 
remains,  and  deeply  imprinted  in  it,  is  still  to  be  seen  the 
mark  of  the  hag's  fingers.  That  stone  is  far  taller  than 
the  tallest  man,  and  the  power  of  forty  men  would  fail  to 
move  it  from  the  spot  where  it  fell. 

The  grass  may  wither  around  it,  the  spade  and  plough 
destroy  dull  heaps  of  earth,  the  walls  of  castles  fall  and 
perish,  but  the  fame  of  the  Finnii  of  Erin  endures  with  the 
rocks  themselves,  and  Clough-a-Regaun  is  a  monument 
fitting  to  preserve  the  memory  of  the  deed! 


232 


CLOUGH  NA  CUDDY. 

XXXIX. 

Above  all  the  islands  in  the  lakes  of  Killarney  give  me 
Innisfallen — "sweet  Innisfallen,"  as  the  melodious  Moore 
calls  it.  It  is,  in  truth,  a  fairy  isle,  although  I  have  no 
fairy  story  to  tell  you  about  it;  and  if  I  had,  these  are  such 
unbelieving  times,  and  people  of  late  have  grown  so  skep- 
tical, that  they  only  smile  at  my  stories,  and  doubt  them. 

However,  none  will  doubt  that  a  monastery  once  stood 
upon  Innisfallen  island,  for  its  ruins  may  still  be  seen;  nei- 
ther, that  within  its  walls  dwelt  certain  pious  and  learned 
persons  called  Monks.  A  very  pleasant  set  of  fellows 
they  were,  I  make  not  the  smallest  doubt;  and  I  am  sure 
of  this,  that  they  had  a  very  pleasant  spot  to  enjoy  them- 
selves in  after  dinner — the  proper  time,  believe  me,  and  I 
am  no  bad  judge  of  such  matters,  for  the  enjoyment  of  a 
fine  prospect. 

Out  of  all  the  monks  you  could  not  pick  a  better  fellow 
nor  a  merrier  soul  than  Father  Cuddy;  he  sung  a  good 
song,  he  told  a  good  story,  and  had  a  jolly,  comfortable- 
looking  paunch  of  his  own,  that  was  a  credit  to  any  refec- 
tory table.  He  was  distinguished  above  all  the  rest  by  the 
name  of  "  the  fat  father.'^  Now  there  are  many  that  will 
take  huff  at  a  name;  but  Father  Cuddy  had  no  nonsense  of 
that  kind  about  him;  he  laughed  at  it— and  well  able  he 
was  to  laugh,  for  his  mouth  nearly  reached  from  one  ear  to 
the  other:  his  might,  in  truth,  be  called  an  open  counte- 
nance. As  his  paunch  was  no  disgrace  to  his  food,  neither 
was  his  nose  to  his  drink.  'Tis  a  doubt  to  me  if  there 
were  not  more  carbuncles  upon  it  than  ever  were  seen  at 
the  bottom  of  the  lake,  which  is  said  to  be  full  of  them. 
His  eyes  had  a  right  merry  twinkle  in  them,  like  moon- 
shine dancing  on  the  water;  and  his  cheeks  had  the  round- 
ness and  crimson  glow  of  ripe  arbutus  berries. 

"  He  ate,  and  drank,  and  prayed,  and  slept. — What  then? 
He  ate,  and  drank,  and  prayed,  and  slept  again!" 


CLOUGH  NA  CUDDT.  253 

Such  wasthetenor  of  his  simple  life:  but  when  he  prayed 
a  certain  drowsiness  would  come  upon  him,  which,  it  must 
be  confessed,  never  occurred  when  a  well-filled  "  black- 
jack'' stood  before  him.  Hence  his  prayers  were  short 
and  his  draughts  were  long.  The  world  loved  him,  and 
he  saw  no  good  reason  why  he  should  not  in  return  love 
its  venison  and  usquebaugh.  But,  as  times  went,  he  must 
have  been  a  pious  man,  or  else  what  befell  him  never  would 
have  happened. 

Spiritual  affairs — for  it  was  respecting  the  importation  of 
a  tun  of  wine  into  the  island  monastery — demanded  the 
presence  of  one  of  the  brotherhood  of  Innisfallen  at  the  ab- 
bey of  Irelagh,  now  called  Mucruss.  The  superintendence 
of  this  important  matter  was  committed  to  Father  Cuddy, 
who  felt  too  deeply  interested  in  the  future  welfare  of  any 
community  of  which  he  was  a  member,  to  neglect  or  de- 
lay such  mission.  With  the  morning's  light  he  was  seen 
guiding  his  shallop  across  the  crimson  waters  of  the  lake 
towards  the  peninsula  of  Mucruss;  and  having  moored  his 
little  bark  in  safety  beneath  the  shelter  of  a  wave-worn 
rock,  he  advanced  with  becoming  dignity  towards  the  ab- 
bey. 

The  stillness  of  the  bright  and  balmy  hour  was  broken 
by  the  heavy  footsteps  of  the  zealous  father.  At  the  sound 
the  startled  deer,  shaking  the  dew  from  their  sides,  sprung 
up  from  their  lair,  and  as  they  bounded  oflf — "  Hah!"  ex- 
claimed Cuddy,  "  what  a  noble  haunch  goes  there! — how 
delicious  it  would  look  smoking  upon  a  goodly  platter!" 

As  he  proceeded,  the  mountain-bee  hummed  his  tune  of 
gladness  around  the  holy  m.an,  save  when  he  buried  in  the 
foxglove  bell,  or  revelling  upon  a  fragrant  bunch  of  thyme; 
and  even  then  the  little  voice  murmured  out  happiness  in 
low  and  broken  tones  of  voluptuous  delight.  Father  Cud- 
dy derived  no  small  comfort  from  the  sound,  for  it  pre- 
saged a  good  metheglin  season,  and  metheglin  he  regarded, 
if  well  manufactured,  to  be  no  bad  liquor,  particularly  when 
there  was  no  stint  of  usquebaugh  in  the  brewing. 

Arrived  within  the  abbey  garth,  he  was  received  with 
due  respect  by  the  brethren  of  Irelagh,  and  arrangements 
for  the  embarkation  of  the  wine  were  completed  to  hisen- 

20*^ 


234  CLOUGH  NA  CITDDr. 

tire  satisfaction.  «  Welcome,  Father  Cuddy,"  said  the 
prior:  "grace  be  on  you.'' 

"  Grace  before  meat,  then,"  said  Cuddy,  "for  a  long  walk 
always  makes  me  hungry,  and  I  am  certain  I  have  not 
walked  less  than  half  a  mile  this  morning,  to  say  nothing 
of  crossing  the  water." 

A  pasty  of  choice  flavour  felt  the  truth  of  this  assertion, 
as  regarded  Father  Cuddy's  appetite.  After  such  consoling 
repast,  it  would  have  been  a  reflection  on  monastic  hospi- 
tality to  depart  wthout  partaking  of  the  grace-cup;  more- 
over, Father  Cuddy  had  a  particular  respect  for  the  antiquity 
of  that  custom.  He  liked  the  taste  of  the  grace-cup  well: — 
he  tried  another, — it  was  no  less  excellent;  and  when  he 
had  swallowed  the  third  he  found  his  heart  expand,  and 
put  forth  its  fibres,  willing  to  embrace  all  mankind.  Surely, 
then,  there  is  Christian  love  and  charity  in  wine! 

I  said  he  sung  a  good  song.  Now  though  psalms  are 
good  songs,  and  in  accordance  with  his  vocation,  I  did  not 
mean  to  imply  that  he  was  a  mere  psalm-singer.  It  was 
well  known  to  the  brethren,  that  wherever  Father  Cuddy 
was,  mirth  and  melody  were  with  him;  mirth  in  his  eye 
and  melody  on  his  tongue;  and  these,  from  experience,  are 
equally  well  known  to  be  thirsty  commodities;  but  he  took 
good  care  never  to  let  them  run  dry.  To  please  the  bro- 
therhood, whose  excellent  wine  pleased  him,  he  sung,  and 
as  "m  vino  Veritas/'  his  song  will  well  become  this  veritable 
history. 


Hoc  erat  in  votis, 
Et  bene  sufficerit  totis 
Si  dum  porto  sacculum 
Bonum  esset  ubique  jentaculum! 
Et  si  parvis 
In  arvis 
Nullam 

Invenero  pullam, 
Ovum  gentiliter  prsebebit  recenj 

Puella  decens. 
Manu  nee  dabis  inyita 
Flos  vallium  harum, 
Decus  puellarum, 
Candida  Marguerita! 


CLOUGH  NA  CUDDY.  235 

THE  friar's  song.* 
I. 

My  vows  I  can  never  fulfil, 
Until 
1  have  breakfasted,  one  way  or  otherj 
And    I  freely  protest. 
That  I  never  can  rest 
'Till  I  borrow  or  beg 
An  egg. 
Unless  I  can  come  at  the  ould  hen,  its  mother. 
But  Maggy,  my  dear, 
While  you're  here, 
I  don't  fear 
To  want  eggs  that  have  just  been  laid  newly; 
For  och!  you're  a  pearl 
Of  a  girl, 
And  you're  called  so  in  Latin  most  truly. 


Me  hora  jucunda  coenas 

Dilectat  bene, 
Et  rerum  sine  dubio  grandium 
Maxima  est  prandium: 

Sed  mihi  crede. 

In  hac  sede, 
Multo  magis  gaudeo. 
Cum  gallicantum  audio, 

In  sinu  tuo 

Videns  ova  duo. 
Oh  semper  me  trades  ita! 

Panibus  de  hordeo  factis, 

Et  copia  lactis, 
Candida  Margarita! 

II. 

There  is  most  to  my  mind  something  that  is  still  upper 

Than  supper, 
Though  it  must  be  admitted  I  feel  no  way  thinner 

After  dinner: 
But  soon  as  I  hear  the  cock  crow 

In  the  morning, 
That  eggs  you  are  bringing  full  surely  I  know, 

By  that  warning. 
While  your  buttermilk  helps  me  to  float 

Down  my  throat 
Those  sweet  cakes  made  of  oat. 

I  don't  envy  an  earl, 

Sweet  girl, 
Och,  'tis  you  are  a  beautiful  pearl. 


236  CLOXJGH  NA  CUDDY. 

Such  was  his  song.  Father  Cuddy  smacked  his  lips  at 
the  recollection  of  Margery's  delicious  fried  eg2;s,  which 
always  imparted  a  peculiar  relish  to  his  liquor.  The  very 
idea  provol^ed  Cuddy  to  raise  the  cup  to  his  mouth,  and 
with  one  hearty  pull  thereat  he  finished  its  contents. 

This  is,  and  ever  was  a  censorious  world,  often  constru- 
ing what  is  only  a  fair  allowance  into  an  excess:  but  I  scorn 
to  reckon  up  any  man's  drink,  like  an  unrelenting  host; 
therefore,  I  cannot  tell  how  many  brimming  draughts  of 
wine,  bedecked  with  the  venerable  Bead,  Father  Cuddy 
emptied  into  his  "soul-case,"  so  he  figuratively  termed  the 
body. 

His  respect  for  the  goodly  company  of  the  monks  of  Ire- 
lagh  detained  him  until  their  adjournment  to  vespers,  when 
he  set  forward  on  his  return  to  Innisfallen.  Whether  his 
mind  was  occupied  in  philosophic  contemplation  or  wrapped 
in  pious  musings,  I  cannot  declare,  but  the  honest  father 
wandered  on  in  a  different  direction  from  that  in  which  his 
shallop  lay.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  insinuate  that  the  good 
liquor,which  he  had  so  commended  caused  him  to  forget 
his  road,  or  that  his  track  was  irregular  and  unsteady.  Oh 
no! — he  carried  his  drink  bravely,  as  became  a  decent  man 
and  a  good  Christian;  yet  somehow,  he  thought  he  could 
distinguish  two  moons.  "Bless  my  eyes,"  said  Father 
Cuddy,  "  every  thing  is  changing  now-a-days! — the  very 
stars  are  not  in  the  same  places  they  used  to  be;  I  think 
Camceachta  (the  Plough)  is  driving  on  at  a  rate  I  never 
saw  it  before  to-night;  but  I  suppose  the  driver  is  drunk, 
for  there  are  blackguards  every  where." 

Cuddy  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words,  when  he  saw, 
or  fancied  he  saw,  the  form  of  a  young  woman,  who,  hold- 
ing up  a  bottle,  beckoned  him  towards  her.  The  night 
was  extremely  beautiful,  and  the  white  dress  of  the  girl 
floated  gracefully  in  the  moonlight,  as  with  gay  step  she 
tripped  on  before  the  worthy  father,  archly  looking  back 
upon  him  over  her  shoulder. 

"Ah,  Margery,  merry  Margery!"  cried  Cuddy,  "you 
tempting  little  rogue! 

*  Flos  vallium  harum, 
Decus  puellarum, 
Candida  Marsrarita.' 


C LOUGH  NA  CUDDY.  237 

"I  see  you,  I  see  you  and  the  bottle!  let  me  but  catch 
you,  Candida  Margarita!"  and  on  he  followed,  panting  and 
smiling,  after  this  alluring  apparition. 

At  length  his  feet  grew  weary,  and  his  breath  failed, 
which  obliged  him  to  give  up  the  chase;  yet  such  was  his 
piety,  that  unwilling  to  rest  in  any  attitude  but  that  of 
prayer,  down  dropped  Father  Cuddy  on  his  knees.  Sleep, 
as  usual,  stole  upon  his  devotions;  and  the  morning  was  far 
advanced,  when  he  awoke  from  dreams,  in  which  tables 
groaned  beneath  their  load  of  viands,  and  wine  poured  it- 
self free  and  sparkling  as  the  mountain  spring. 

Rubbing  his  eyes,  he  looked  about  him,  and  the  more  he 
looked  the  more  he  wondered  at  the  alteration  which  ap- 
peared in  the  face  of  the  country.  "Bless  my  soul  and 
body!''  said  the  good  father,  "  I  saw  the  stars  changing  last 
night,  but  here  is  a  change!'*  Doubting  his  senses,  he 
looked  again.  The  hills  bore  the  same  majestic  outline  as 
on  the  preceding  day,  and  the  lake  spread  itself  beneath  his 
view  in  the  same  tranquil  beauty,  and  studded  with  the 
same  number  of  islands;  but  every  smaller  feature  in  the 
landscape  was  strangely  altered.  What  had  been  naked 
rocks  were  now  clothed  with  holly  and  arbutus.  Whole 
woods  had  disappeared,  and  waste  places  had  become  cul- 
tivated fields;  and,  to  complete  the  work  of  enchantment, 
the  very  season  itself  seemed  changed.  In  the  rosy  dawn 
of  a  summer's  morning  he  had  left  the  monastery  of  Innis- 
fallen,  and  he  now  felt  in  every  sight  and  sound  the  drea- 
riness of  winter.  The  hard  ground  was  covered  with 
withered  leaves;  icicles  depended  from  leafless  branches; 
he  heard  the  sweet  low  note  of  the  robin,  who  familiarly 
approached  him;  and  he  felt  his  fingers  numbed  from  the 
nipping  frost.  Father  Cuddy  found  it  rather  difficult  to 
account  for  such  sudden  transformations,  and  to  convince 
himself  it  was  not  the  illusion  of  a  dream,  he  was  about 
to  rise,  when  lo!  he  discovered  that  both  his  knees  were 
buried  at  least  six  inches  in  the  solid  stone;  for,  notwith- 
standing all  these  changes,  he  had  never  altered  his  devout 
position. 

Cuddy  was  now  wide  awake,  and  felt,  when  he  got  up, 
his  joints  sadly  cramped,  which  it  was  only  natural  they 
should  be,  considering  the  hard  texture  of  the  stone,  and 


238  CLOXJGH  NA  CUDDY. 

the  depth  his  knees" had  sunk  into  it.  But  the  great  diffi- 
culty was  to  explain  how,  in  one  night,  summer  had  be- 
come winter,  whole  woods  had  been  cut  down,  and  well- 
grown  trees  had  sprouted  up.  The  miracle,  nothing  else 
could  he  conclude  it  to  be,  urged  him  to  hasten  his  return 
to  Innisfallen,  where  he  might  learn  some  explanation  of 
these  marvellous  events. 

Seeing  a  boat  moored  within  reach  of  the  shore,  he  de- 
layed not,  in  the  midst  of  such  wonders,  to  seek  his  own 
bark,  but,  seizing  the  oars,  pulled  stoutly  towards  the 
island;  and  here  new  wonders  awaited  him. 

Father  Cuddy  waddled,  as  fast  as  cramped  limbs  could 
carry  his  rotund  corporation,  to  the  gate  of  the  monastery, 
where  he  loudly  demanded  admittance. 

"Holloa!  whence  come  you,  master  monk,  and  what's 
your  business?"  demanded  a  stranger  who  occupied  the 
porter's  place. 

"Business! — my  business!"  repeated  the  confounded 
Cuddy, — "why,  do  you  not  know  me?  Has  the  wine 
arrived  safely?" 

"Hence,  fellow!"  said  the  porter's  representative,  in  a 
surly  tone;  "nor  think  to  impose  on  me  with  your  monk- 
ish tales." 

"Fellow!"  exclaimed  the  father:  "'mercy  upon  us,  that 
I  should  be  so  spoken  to  at  the  gate  of  my  own  house!  — 
Scoundrel!"  cried  Cuddy,  raising  his  voice,  "do  you  not 
see  my  garb — my  holy  garb?" 

"Ay,  fellow,"  replied  he  of  the  keys — "the  garb  of 
laziness  and  filthy  debauchery,  which  has  been  expelled 
from  out  these  walls.  Know  you  not,  idle  knave,  of  the 
suppression  of  this  nest  of  superstition,  and  that  the  abbey 
lands  and  possessions  were  granted  in  August  last  to  Master 
Robert  Collam,  by  our  Lady  Elizabeth,  sovereign  queen 
of  England,  and  paragon  of  all  beauty — whom  God  pre- 
serve!" 

"  Queen  of  England!"  said  Cuddy;  "  there  never  was  a 
sovereign  queen  of  England — this  is  but  a  piece  with  the 
rest.  I  saw  how  it  was  going  with  the  stars  last  night — 
the  world's  turned  upside  down.  But  surely  this  is  Innis- 
fallen island,  and  I  am  the  Father  Cudd}^  who  yesterday 


CLOUGH  NA  CUDDY.  239 

morning  went  over  to  the  abbey  of  Irelagb,  respecting  the 
tun  of  wine.     Do  you  not  know  me  now?" 

"Know  you! — how  should  I  know  you?*'  said  the 
keeper  of  the  abbey.  ''Yet,  true  it  is,  that  I  have  heard 
my  grandmother,  whose  mother  remembered  the  man, 
often  speak  of  the  fat  Father  Cuddy  of  Innisfallen,  who 
made  a  profane  and  godless  ballad  in  praise  of  fresh  eggs, 
of  which  he  and  his  vile  crew  knew  more  than  they  did 
of  the  word  of  God;  and  who,  being  drunk,  it  is  said, 
tumbled  into  the  lake  one  night,  and  was  drowned;  but 
that  must  have  been  a  hundred,  ay,  more  than  a  hundred 
years  since.'' 

"'Twas  1  who  composed  that  song  in  praise  of  Margery's 
fresh  eggs,  which  is  no  profane  and  godless  ballad — no  other 
Father  Cuddy  than  myself  ever  belonged  to  Innisfallen,'* 
earnestly  exclaimed  the  holy  man.  "A  hundred  years! — 
what  was  your  great-granri mother's  name?"' 

"She  was  a  Mahony  of  Dunlow — Margaret  ni  Mahony; 
and  my  grandmother — " 

"What!  merry  Margery  of  Dunlow  your  great-grand- 
mother!" shouted  Cuddy.  "St.  Brandon  help  me! — the 
wicked  wench,  with  that  tempting  bottle-! — why,  'tvvas 
only  last  night — a  hundred  years! — your  great-grand- 
mother, said  you? — There  has,  indeed,  been  a  strange  torpor 
over  me;  I  must  have  slept  all  this  time!" 

That  Father  Cuddy  had  done  so,  I  think  is  sufficiently 
proved  by  the  changes  which  occurred  during  his  nap. 
A  reformation,  and  a  serious  one  it  was  for  him,  had  taken 
place.  Pretty  Margery's  fresh  eggs  were  no  longer  to  be 
had  in  Innisfallen;  and  with  a  heart  as  heavy  as  his  foot- 
steps, the  worthy  man  directed  his  course  towards  Dingle, 
wliere  he  embarked  in  a  vessel  on  the  point  of  sailing  for 
Malaga.  The  rich  wine  of  that  place  had  of  old  impressed 
him  with  a  high  respect  for  its  monastic  establishments, 
in  one  of  which  he  quietly  wore  out  the  remainder  of  his 
days. 

The  stone  impressed  with  the  mark  of  Father  Cuddy's 
knees  may  be  seen  to  this  day.  Should  any  incredulous 
persons  doubt  my  story,  I  request  them  to  go  to  Killarney, 
where  Clough  na  Cuddy — so  is  the  stone  called — remains 
in  Lord  Kenmare's  park,  an  indisputable  evidence  of  the 


240 


THE  GIANT'S  STAIRS. 


fact.  Spillane,  the  bugle-man,  will  be  able  to  point  it  out 
to  them,  as  he  did  so  to  me;  and  here  is  my  sketch  by 
which  they  may  identify  it. 


THE  GIANT'S  STAIRS. 


XL. 

On  the  road  between  Passage  and  Cork  there  is  an  old 
mansion  called  Ronayne's  Court.  It  may  be  easily  known 
from  the  stack  of  chimneys  and  the  gable  ends,  which  are 
to  be  seen,  look  at  it  which  way  you  will.  Here  it  was 
that  Maurice  Ronayne  and  his  wife  Margaret  Gould  kept 
house,  as  may  be  learned  to  this  day  from  the  great  old 
chimney-piece,  on  which  is  carved  their  arms.  They 
were  a  mighty  worthy  couple,  and  had  but  one  son,  who 
was  called  Philip,  after  no  less  a  person  than  the  king  of 
Spain. 

Immediately  on  his  smelling  the  cold  air  of  this  world 
the  child  sneezed;  and  it  was  naturally  taken  to  be  a  good 
sign  of  having  a  clear  head;  but  the  subsequent  rapidity  of 
his  learning  was  truly  amazing;  for  on  the  very  first  day  a 
primer  was  put  into  his  hand,  he  tore  out  the  A,  B,  C  page 
and  destroyed  it,  as  a  thing  quite  beneath  his  notice.  No 
wonder  then  that  both  father  and  mother  were  proud  of 
their  heir,  who  gave  such  indisputable  proofs  of  genius,  or, 
as  they  call  it  in  that  part  of  the  world,  ''genus.'' 

One  morning,  however,  Master  Phil,  who  was  then  just 
seven  years  old,  was  missing,  and  no  one  could  tell  what 


THE  giant's  stairs.  241 

had  become  of  him:  servants  were  sent  in  all  directions  to 
seek  him,  on  horseback  and  on  foot;  but  they  returned 
without  any  tidings  of  the  boy,  whose  disappearance  alto- 
gether was  most  unaccountable.  A  large  reward  was  of- 
fered, but  it  produced  them  no  intelligence,  and  years  rolled 
away  without  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ronayne  having  obtained  any 
satisfactory  account  of  the  fate  of  their  lost  child. 

There  lived,  at  this  time,  near  Carigaline,  one  Robert 
Kelly,  a  blacksmith  by  trade.  He  was  what  is  termed  a 
handy  man,  and  his  abilities  were  held  in  much  estimation 
by  the  lads  and  the  lasses  of  the  neighbourhood:  for,  inde- 
pendent of  shoeing  horses  which  he  did  to  great  perfection, 
and  making  plough-irons,  he  interpreted  dreams  for  the 
young  women,  sung  Arthur  O'Bradley  at  their  weddings, 
and  was  so  good-natured  a  fellow  at  a  christening,  that  he 
was  gossip  to  half  the  country  round. 

Now  it  happened  that  Robin  had  a  dream  himself,  and 
young  Philip  Ronayne  appeared  to  him  in  it  at  the  dead 
hour  of  the  night.  Robin  thought  he  saw  the  boy  mounted 
upon  a  beautiful  white  horse,  and  that  he  told  him  how  he 
was  made  a  page  to  the  giant  Mahon  Mac  Mahon,  who  had 
carried  him  off,  and  who  held  his  court  in  the  hard  heart 
of  the  rock.  "  The  seven  years — my  time  of  service, — are 
clean  out,  Robin,"  said  he,  "and  if  you  release  me  this 
night,  I  will  be  the  making  of  you  for  ever  after." 

"And  how  will  I  know,"  said  Robin — cunning  enough, 
even  in  his  sleep — "but  this  is  all  a  dream?" 

"  Take  that,"  said  the  boy,  "  for  a  token" — and  at  the 
word  the  white  horse  struck  out  with  one  of  his  hind  legs, 
and  gave  poor  Robin  such  a  kick  in  the  forehead,  that 
thinking  he  was  a  dead  man,  he  roared  as  loud  as  he  could 
after  his  brains,  and  woke  up  calling  a  thousand  murders. 
He  found  himself  in  bed,  but  he  had  the  mark  of  the  blow, 
the  regular  print  of  a  horse-shoe  upon  his  forehead  as  red 
as  blood;  and  Robin  Kelly,  who  never  before  found  himself 
puzzled  at  the  dream  of  any  other  person,  did  not  know 
what  to  think  of  his  own. 

Robin  was  well  acquainted  with  the  Giant's  Stairs,  as, 

indeed,  who  is  not  that  knows  the  harbour.''     They  consist 

of  great  masses  of  rock,  which,  piled  one  above  another, 

rise  like  a  flight  of  steps,  from  very  deep  water,  against  the 

21 


249  THE  giant's  stairs. 

bold  cliff  of  Carrigmahon.  Nor  are  they  badly  suited  for 
stairs  to  those  who  have  legs  of  sufficient  length  to  stride 
over  a  moderate-sized  house,  or  to  enable  them  to  clear  the 
space  of  a  mile  in  a  hop,  step,  and  jump.  Both  these  feats 
the  giant  Mac  Mahon  was  said  to  have  performed  in  the 
days  of  Finnian  glory;  and  the  common  tradition  of  the 
country  placed  his  dwelling  within  the  cliff  up  whose  side 
the  stairs  led. 

Such  was  the  impression  which  the  dream  made  on  Ro-* 
bin,  that  he  determined  to  put  its  truth  to  the  test.  It  oc- 
curred to  him,  however,  before  setting  out  on  this  adven- 
ture, that  a  plough-iron  may  be  no  bad  companion,  as,  from 
experience,  he  knew  it  was  an  excellent  knock-down  ar- 
gument, having,  on  more  occasions  than  one,  settled  a  little 
disagreement  very  quietly:  so,  putting  one  on  his  shoulder, 
off  he  marched  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  through  Glaun  a 
Thowk  (the  Hawk's  Glen)  to  Monkstown.  Here  an  old 
gossip  of  his  (Tom  Clancey  by  name)  lived,  who,  on  hear- 
ing Robin's  dream,  promised  him  the  use  of  his  skiff,  and 
moreover  offered  to  assist  in  rowing  it  to  the  Giant's  Stairs. 

After  a  supper  which  was  of  the  best,  they  embarked. 
It  was  a  beautiful  still  night,  and  the  little  boat  glided 
swiftly  along.  The  regular  dip  of  the  oars,  the  distant 
song  of  the  sailor,  and  sometimes  the  voice  of  a  belated 
traveller  at  the  ferry  of  Carrigaloe,  alone  broke  the  quiet- 
ness of  the  land  and  sea  and  sky.  The  tide  was  in  their 
favour,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Robin  and  his  gossip  rested 
on  their  oars  in  the  dark  shadow  of  the  Giant's  Stairs. 
Robin  looked  anxiously  for  the  entrance  to  the  Giant's 
Palace,  which,  it  was  said,  may  be  found  by  any  one  seek- 
ing it  at  midnight;  but  no  such  entrance  could  he  see. 
His  impatience  had  hurried  him  there  before  that  time,  and 
after  waiting  a  considerable  space  in  a  state  of  suspense  not 
to  be  described,  Robin,  with  pure  vexation,  could  not  help 
exclaiming  to  his  companion,  "  'Tis  a  pair  of  fools  we  are, 
Tom  Clancey,  for  coming  here  at  all  on  the  strength  of  a 
dream." 
"And  whose  doing  is  it,"  said  Tom,  "but  your  own?" 

At  the  moment  he  spoke  they  perceived  a  faint  glim- 
mering light  to  proceed  from  the  cliff,  which  gradually  in- 
creased until  a  porch  big  enough  for  a  king's  palace  un- 


243 

folded  itself  almost  on  a  level  with  the  water.  They  pulled 
the  skiff  directly  towards  the  opening,  and  Robin  Kelly, 
seizing  his  plough-iron,  boldly  entered  with  a  strong  hand 
and  a  stout  heart.  Wild  and  strange  was  that  entrance; 
the  whole  of  which  appeared  formed  of  grim  and  grotesque 
faces,  blending  so  strangely  each  with  the  other  that  it  was 
impossible  to  define  any:  the  chin  of  one  formed  the  nose  of 
another:  what  appeared  to  be  a  fixed  and  stern  eye,  if  dwelt 
upon,  changed  to  a  gaping  mouth;  and  the  lines  of  the  lofty 
forehead  grew  into  a  majestic  and  flowing  beard.  The 
more  Robin  allowed  himself  to  contemplate  the  forms 
around  him,  the  more  terrific  they  became;  and  the  stony 
expression  of  this  crowd  of  faces  assumed  a  savage  ferocity 
as  his  imagination  converted  feature  after  feature  into  a 
different  shape  and  character.  Losing  the  twilight  in 
which  these  indefinite  forms  were  visible,  he  advanced 
through  a  dark  and  devious  passage,  whilst  a  deep  and 
rumbling  noise  sounded  as  if  the  rock  was  about  to  close 
upon  him  and  swallow  him  up  alive  for  ever.  Now,  in- 
deed, poor  Robin  felt  afraid. 

"  Robin,  Robin,"  said  he,  "  if  you  were  a  fool  for  coming 
here,  what  in  the  name  of  fortune  are  you  now?"  But,  as 
before,  he  had  scarcely  spoken,  when  he  saw  a  small  light 
twinkling  through  the  darkness  of  the  distance,  like  a  star 
in  the  midnight  sky.  To  retreat  was  out  of  the  question; 
for  so  many  turnings  and  windings  were  in  the  passage, 
that  he  considered  he  had  but  little  chance  of  making  his 
way  back.  He  therefore  proceeded  towards  the  bit  of  light, 
and  came  at  last  into  a  spacious  chamber,  from  the  roof 
of  which  hung  the  solitary  lamp  that  had  guided  him. 
Emerging  from  such  profound  gloom,  the  single  lamp 
afforded  Robin  abundant  light  to  discover  several  gigantic 
figures  seated  round  a  massive  stone  table  as  if  in  serious 
deliberation,  but  no  word  disturbed  the  breathless  silence 
which  prevailed.  At  the  head  of  this  table  sat  Mahon  Mac 
Mahon  himself,  whose  majestic  beard  had  taken  root,  and 
in  the  course  of  ages  grown  into  the  stone  slab.  He  was 
the  first  who  perceived  Robin;  and  instantly  starting  up, 
drew  his  long  beard  from  out  the  huge  lump  of  rock  in 
such  haste  and  with  so  sudden  a  jerk,  that  it  was  shattered 
into  a  thousand  pieces. 


244 

"What  seek  you?"  he  demanded  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

"1  come,"  answered  Robin,  with  as  much  boldness  as  he 
could  put  on — for  his  heart  was  almost  fainting  within  him 
— "I  come,"  said  he,  "to  claim  Philip  Ronayne,  whose 
time  of  service  is  out  this  night." 

"And  who  sent  you  here?"  said  the  giant. 

"  'Twas  of  my  own  accord  1  came,"  said  Robin. 

"  Then  you  must  single  him  out  from  among  my  pages," 
said  the  giant;  "  and  if  you  fix  on  the  wrong  one  your  life 
is  the  forfeit.  Follow  me."  He  led  Robin  into  a  hall  of 
vast  extent  and  filled  with  lights;  along  either  side  of  which 
were  rows  of  beautiful  children  all  apparently  seven  years 
old,  and  none  beyond  that  age,  dressed  in  green,  and  every 
one  exactly  dressed  alike. 

"  Here,"  said  Mahon,  "  you  are  free  to  take  Philip  Ro° 
nayne,  if  you  will;  but,  remember,  I  give  but  one  choice." 

Robin  was  sadly  perplexed;  for  there  were  hundreds 
upon  hundreds  of  children;  and  he  had  no  very  clear  re- 
collection of  the  boy  he  sought.  But  he  walked  along  the 
hall,  by  the  side  of  Mahon,  as  if  nothing  was  the  matter, 
although  his  great  iron  dress  clanked  fearfully  at  every 
step,  sounding  louder  than  Robin's  own  sledge  battering 
on  his  anvil. 

They  had  nearly  reached  the  end  of  the  hall  without 
speaking,  when  Robin,  seeing  that  the  only  means  he  had 
was  to  make  friends  with  the  giant,  determined  to  try  what 
efiect  a  few  soft  words  might  have  upon  him. 

"'Tisafine  wholesome  appearance  the  poor  children 
carry,"  remarked  Robin,  "  although  they  have  been  here 
so  long  shut  out  from  the  fresh  air  and  the  blessed  light  of 
heaven.  'Tis  tenderly  your  honour  must  have  reared 
them!" 

"Ay,"  said  the  giant,  "that  is  true  for  you;  so  give  me 
your  hand;  for  you  are,  I  believe,  a  very  honest  fellow  for 
a  blacksmith." 

Robin  at  the  first  look  did  not  much  like  the  huge  size 
of  the  hand,  and  therefore  presented  his  plough-iron,  which 
the  giant  seizing,  twisted  in  his  grasp  round  and  round 
again  as  if  it  had  been  a  potato-stalk;  on  seeing  this  all 
the  children  set  up  a  shout  of  laughter.  In  the  midst  of 
their  mirth  Robin  thought  he  heard  his  name  called  j  and, 


245 

all  ear  and  eye,  he  put  his  hand  on  the  boy  who  he  fancied 
had  spoken,  crying  out  at  the  same  time,  "Let  me  live  or 
die  for  it,  but  this  is  young  Phil  Ronayne." 

"It  is  Philip  Ronayne — happy  Philip  Ronayne,"  said 
his  young  companions;  and  in  an  instant  the  hall  became 
dark.  Crashing  noises  were  heard,  and  all  was  in  strange 
confusion:  but  Robin  held  fast  his  prize,  and  found  himself 
lying  in  the  gray  dawn  of  the  morning  at  the  head  of  the 
Giant's  Stairs,  with  the  boy  clasped  in  his  arms, 

Robin  had  plenty  of  gossips  to  spread  the  story  of  his 
wonderful  adventure — Passage,  Monkstown,  Ringaskiddy, 
Seamount,  Carrigaline — the  whole  baronj^  of  Kerricurrihy 
rung  with  it. 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  Robin,  it  is  young  Phil  Ronayne, 
you  have  brought  back  with  you?"  was  the  regular  ques- 
tion; for  although  the  boy  had  been  seven  years  away,  his 
appearance  now  was  just  the  same  as  on  the  day  he  was 
missed.  He  had  neither  grown  taller  nor  older  in  look, 
and  he  spoke  of  things  which  had  happened  before  he  was 
carried  oflf  as  one  awakened  from  sleep,  or  as  if  they  had 
occurred  yesterday. 

"Am  1  sure?  Well,  that's  a  queer  question,"  was 
Robin's  reply;  "seeing  the  boy  has  the  blue  eyes  of  the 
mother,  with  the  foxy  hair  of  the  father,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  purly  wart  on  the  right  side  of  his  little  nose." 

However  Robin  Kelly  may  have  been  questioned,  the 
worthy  couple  of  Ronayne's  court  doubted  not  that  he  was 
the  deliverer  of  their  child  from  the  power  of  the  giant 
Mac  Mahon;  and  the  reward  they  bestowed  upon  him 
equalled  their  gratitude. 

Philip  Ronayne  lived  to  be  an  old  man;  and  he  was  re- 
markable to  the  day  of  his  death  for  his  skill  in  working 
brass  and  iron,  which  it  was  believed  he  had  learned  during 
his  seven  years'  apprenticeship  to  the  giant  Mahon  Mac 
Mahon. 


And  now,  farewell!  the  fairy  dream  is  o'er; 

The  tales  my  infancy  had  loved  to  hear, 

Like  blissful  visions  fade  and  disappear. 
Such  tales  Momonia's  peasant  tells  no  more ! 
Vanish'd  are  mermaids  from  the  sea  beat  shore; 

Check'd  is  the  Headless  Horseman's  strange  career; 

Fir  Darrig's  voice  no  longer  mocks  the  ear, 
Nor  rocks  bear  wondrous  imprints  as  of  yore! 
Such  is  "  the  march  of  mind."     But  did  the  fays 

(Creatures  of  whim — the  gossamers  of  will) 

In  Ireland  work  such  sorrow  and  such  ill 
As  stormier  spirits  of  our  modern  daysl 
Oh  land  beloved!  no  angry  voice  I  raise: 
My  constant  prayer — "  may  peace  be  with  thee  still!" 


APPENDIX. 


APPENDIX. 


LETTER  FROM  SIR  WALTER    SCOTT   TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF   THE   IRISH 
FAIRY  LEGENDS. 

Sir, 

I  HAVE  been  obliged  by  the  courtesy  which  sent  me  your  very  in- 
teresting work  on  Irish  superstitions,  and  no  less  by  the  amusement 
which  it  has  afforded  me,  both  from  the  interest  of  the  stories,  and 
the  lively  manner  in  which  they  are  told.  You  are  to  consider  this, 
Sir,  as  a  high  compliment  from  one,  who  holds  him  on  the  subject 
of  elves,  ghosts,  visions,  &c.  nearly  as  strong  as  William  Churne  of 
Staffordshire — 

"  Who  every  year  can  mend  your  cheer 
With  tales  both  old  and  new." 

The  extreme  similarity  of  your  fictions  to  ours  in  Scotland,  is  very 
striking.  The  Cluricaune  (which  is  an  admirable  subject  for  a  pan- 
tomime) is  not  known  here.  I  suppose  the  Scottish  cheer  was  not 
sufficient  to  tempt  to  the  hearth  either  him,  or  that  singular  demon 
called  by  Heywood  the  Buttery  Spirit,  which  diminished  the  profits 
of  an  unjust  landlord  by  eating  up  all  that  he  cribbed  for  his  guests. 

The  beautiful  superstition  of  the  banshee  seems  in  a  great  measure 
peculiar  to  Ireland,  though  in  some  Highland  families  there  is  such 
a  spectre,  particularly  in  that  of  Mac  Lean  of  Lochbuy;  but  I  think 
I  could  match  all  your  other  tales  with  something  similar. 

I  can  assure  you,  however,  that  the  progress  of  philosophy  has 
not  even  yet  entirely  "pulled  the  old  woman  out  of  our  hearts,"  as 
Addison  expresses  it.  Witches  are  still  held  in  reasonable  detes- 
tation, although  we  no  longer  burn  or  even  score  above  the  breath. 
As  for  the  water  bull,  they  live  who  will  take  their  oaths  to  having 
seen  him  emerge  from  a  small  lake  on  the  boundary  of  my  property 
here,  scarce  large  enough  to  have  held  him,  I  should  think.     Some 


250  APPENDIX. 

traits  in  his  description  seem  to  answer  the  hippopotamus,  and  these 
are  always  mentioned  both  in  highland  and  lowland  story:  strange 
if  we  could  conceive  there  existed,  under  a  tradition  so  universal, 
eorae  shadowy  reference  to  those  fossil  bones  of  animals  which  are 
60  often  found  in  the  lakes  and  bogs. 

But  to  leave  antediluvian  stories  for  the  freshest  news  from  fairy 
land,  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  send  you  an  account  of  King 
Oberon's  court,  which  was  verified  before  me  as  a  magistrate,  with 
all  the  solemnities  of  a  court  of  justice,  within  this  fortnight  past. 
A  young  shepherd,  a  lad  of  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  well  brought 
up,  and  of  good  capacity,  and,  that  I  may  be  perfectly  accurate,  in 
the  service  of  a  friend,  a  most  respectable  farmer,  at  Oakwood,  on 
the  estate  of  Hugh  Scott,  Esq.,  of  Harden,  made  oath  and  said,  that 
going  to  look  after  some  sheep  which  his  master  had  directed  to  be 
put  upon  turnips,  and  passing  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  a  small 
copse-wood  adjacent  to  the  river  Etterick,  he  was  surprised  at  the 
sight  of  four  or  five  little  personages,  about  two  feet  or  thirty  inches 
in  height,  who  were  seated  under  the  trees,  apparently  in  deep 
conversation.  At  this  singular  appearance  he  paused  till  he  had  re- 
freshed his  noble  courage  with  a  prayer  and  a  few  recollections  of 
last  Sunday's  sermon,  and  then  advanced  to  the  little  party.  But 
observing  that,  instead  of  disappearing,  they  seemed  to  become  yet 
more  magnificently  distinct  than  before,  and  now  doubting  nothing, 
from  their  foreign  dresses  and  splendid  decorations,  that  they  were 
the  choice  ornaments  of  the  fairy  court,  he  fairly  turned  tail  and 
went  "  to  raise  the  water,"  as  if  the  South'ron  had  made  a  raid. 
Others  came  to  the  rescue,  and  yet  the  fairy  cortege  awaited  their 
arrival  in  still  and  silent  dignity.  I  wish  I  could  stop  here,  for  the 
devil  take  all  explanations,  they  stop  duels  and  destroy  the  credit 
of  apparitions,  neither  allow  ghosts  to  be  made  in  an  honourable 
way,  or  to  be  believed  in  (poor  souls!)  when  they  revisit  the  glimpses 
of  the  moon. 

I  must  however  explain,  like  other  honourable  gentlemen,  else- 
where.   You  must  know,  that,  hke  our  neighbours,  we  have  a  school 

of  arts  for  our  mechanics  at  G ,  a  small  manufacturing  town 

in  this  country,  and  that  the  tree  of  knowledge  there  as  elsewhere 
produces  its  usual  crop  of  good  and  evil.  The  day  before  this  ava- 
tar of  Oberon  was  a  fair-day  at  Selkirk,  and  amongst  other  popular 
divertisements,  was  one  which,  in  former  days,  I  would  have  called 
a  puppet-show,  and  its  master  a  puppet-showman.  He  has  put  me 
right,  however,  by  informing  me,  that  he  writes  \\\mse\^  artist  from 
Vauxhall,  and  that  he  exhibits  fantoccini;  call  them  what  you  will, 
it  seems  they  gave  great  delight  to  the  unwashed   artificers  of 

G .     Formerly  they  would  have  been  contented  to  wonder 

and  applaud,  but  not  so  were  they  satisfied  in  our  modern  days  of 
investigation,  for  they  broke  into  Punch's  sanctuary  forcibly,  after 
he  had  been  laid  aside  for  the  evening,  made  violent  seizure  of  his 
person,  and  carried  off  him,  his  spouse,  and  heaven  knows  what  cap- 
tives besides,  in  their  plaid  nooks,  to  be  examined  at  leisure,    AH 


APPENDIX.  251 

this  they  literally  did  (forcing  a  door  to  accomplish  their  purpose) 
in  the  spirit  of  science  alone,  or  but  slightly  stimulated  by  that  of 
malt  whisky,  with  which  last  we  have  been  of  late  deluged.  Cool 
reflection  came  as  they  retreated  by  the  banks  of  the  Etterick;  they 
made  the  discovery  that  they  could  no  more  make  Punch  move  than 

Lord  could  make  him  speak;  and  recollecting,  I  believe,  that 

there  was  such  a  person  as  the  Sheriff  in  the  world,  they  abandoned 
their  prisoners,  in  hopes,  as  they  pretended,  that  they  would  be  found 
and  restored  in  safety  to  their  proper  owner. 

It  is  only  necessary  to  add  that  the  artist  had  his  losses  made  good 
by  a  subscription,  and  the  scientific  inquirers  escaped  with  a  small 
fine,  as  a  warning  not  to  indulge  such  an  irregular  spirit  of  research 
in  future. 

As  this  somewhat  tedious  story  contains  the  very  last  news  from 
fairy  land,  I  hope  you  will  give  it  acceptance,  and  beg  you  to  believe 
me  very  much 

Your  obliged  and  thankful  servant, 

Walter  Scott. 
27th  April,  1825. 

AbBotsford,  Melrose. 


THE  END, 


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